Raven Bend

A thirty-something suburban Quickie Mart co-manager, bored with his job and disillusioned by life, is offered a dubious job managing a remote gas station near a strange little mystical town haunted by its own past and host to a paranormal murder mystery. Along with his wife and daughter he embarks on a sometimes bizarre, sometimes grisly adventure set on the fringes of reality, deep in the North Florida wilderness. The first of three dark novels set in the town of Dixon, whose grim history refuses to die.

Available for purchase at Lulu.com as an e-book and Amazon for Kindle. More outlets and formats, including Nook and print versions are in the works.

https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/danielsmid

Shades of Night presents

New Blood

Fresh off their latest traumatic mission, a ghost-hunting team based out of Sedona, Arizona contemplates an uncertain future. Having just lost a teammate on this life-altering investigation, they search for a new recruit while trying to plot a forward path and keep their deathly ambitions alive. New Blood is the first (and shortest) book out of five in a larger story called Shades of Night. Each character-driven tale involves a separate ghost investigation that is complicated and complimented by the eclectic team's efforts to gel.

Available for purchase as an e-book at Lulu.com and Amazon for Kindle More outlets and formats, including Nook and print versions are in the works

https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/danielsmid

The Empty Sepulchre

Coming Spring/Summer 2026

A popular author from Alberton, Wisconsin, while wrestling with his latest novel, is drawn to a remote cemetery by a specter in the night. There he finds a lonely grave with no occupant. Meanwhile a divorced mother of two seeks the aid of a pretentious, irreverent psychic when an entity makes itself known in her house. The two storylines merge into an offbeat paranormal mystery that involves a series of strange paradoxes, right down to the nature of the novel itself.

The Awakening has begun...

Shades of Night presents

supplemental shades

The first three in a series of twelve short stories that take place between the five books comprising Shades of Night. Each mini-tale focuses on character or story elements that help add context to the larger story without being essential to the main narrative. Just a few glimpses into otherwise incidental happenings, really. Supplemental yet strangely elemental.

Shades of Night presents:

The Canyon Phantom

Nightshade Investigations, a paranormal investigation team from Sedona, has acquired a new tech person and is ready to embark on their first major trek--a strenuous hike into the bowels of Grand Canyon on the hunt for a ghost lost deep in the unforgiving wilderness. The second book of five in the Shades of Night series is a ghost adventure that tightens the bonds of this eclectic team as their individual personalities and group unity are tested in the broiling desert crucible.

Coming Jan. 2026

Dixon Gas

Nearly two years have passed since the events of Raven Bend, when a disturbed killer left a tragic legacy in the small town of Dixon, Florida. Now, as the residents try to find a hint of normalcy in their lives, a stranger shows up looking for a lost artifact that may unlock the grim past of their surreal community with catastrophic results. At the same time, a ghost hunting team from Sedona, Arizona becomes embroiled in the unfolding drama. The second in a trio of dark paranormal mysteries.

Currently undergoing revision, scheduled for release Spring 2027. Sample chapters coming soon.

RAVEN BEND

A novel by Daniel Smid

Text and Artwork

© Copyright 2017 Daniel Smid

Revised Edition ©Copyright 2025 Daniel Smid

ISBN # 979-8-9997036-1-3

FOR

Benny Lunar

(Wherever you are)

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Raven Bend was first completed in December of 2006,

and is set in Spring of 2001.

Several edits and revisions have taken place,

including a 2017 copyright edition.

This current version is the most thorough edit;

completed between 2022 and 2024.

Being a perpetually dissatisfied self-critic,

it surely won’t be my last.

The setting is still 2001, to remain consistent

with established histories and back stories.

CONTENTS

CONTENTS……………………………………6

INTRODUCTION…………….…...…………….9

PROLOGUE………………………………….12

PART ONE: Destiny’s Gate…………………15

1 The Big meeting……………….………..16

2 Ever Hear of Dixon?................................22

3 Pamela’s Gift…………………………....33

4 Time for Magic…………………………44

5 Paying the Bills…………………………52

6 Prattle Weary……………………….…..62

7 Anybody Out There?...............................70

PART TWO: Meet Dixon…………….......….74

8 The Right Way……………..……….….75

9 That Signpost Up Ahead…….………..79

10 Welcomes Home………………………89

11 Quid Pro Quo…………………………..98

12 Strange New Day…………………..…113

13 The Memory Box……………………...119

14 Understanding Everett.……………....126

15 Misted Windows………………………136

16 A Sinister Fate…………….…………...143

PART THREE: Just Around the Bend……..149

17 Morgan’s Place….…………………….150

18 The Portal……………………………...158

19 Temporal Echoes……………………..166

20 Any Way to Treat a Lady.……...……174

21 Hotel Casanegra….…….………...…183

22 Back in the Day…….…………….…195

23 First Impressions……………….…..204

24 Acquiring the Herald…….…………215

25 Blackout………………………….…..225

26 A Curse and a Blessing……………...236

PART FOUR: Blood Passions…………....249

27 Not A Dream…………..………...…..250

28 Some Weird Ritual..…………………256

29 Man in the Shadows…………………267

30 The Sensory Extension….……..…....280

31 For Others to Solve……………..……295

32 Anger Management….………….…...306

33 Desensitized…………………………..318

34 Underfoot or Undertow……………....326

35 Secrets and Lies……………….…...…338

36 The Call of the Woods………….…….353

PART FIVE: Somewhere Elsewhere…….…365

37 Manhunt………….…………………..366

38 A Personal Peril…..…….……………380

39 Madness and Sorrow………………...388

40 Where the Wild Things Are…...….….400

41 Source of Infection………………..…408

42 Psychosomatic…………………….….422

43 Recurring Themes……………………431

44 Gatecrashing…………………………..445

45 The Aftermath……………………...…460

46 Bend Again…..…………………….…476

EPILOGUE……………………………….…481

          INTRODUCTION

      FREE BEER FOR EVERYONE IMMEDIATELY!

       Did I get your attention? Good. Some people like to skip over introductions and just get down to business. I wouldn’t even write one if I didn’t think it was worth your time. Seriously.

      Before I do this I should say up front that there is no free beer. I wouldn’t blame you for being upset—if someone led me to believe that beer was imminent and then reneged I can’t predict what I would do. I sympathize, really.

        So here we go…

       Raven Bend is not a solitary tale. It is one part of a three part story. Each of the three parts is its own novel; beginning, middle, end, etc. But they each center on a different aspect of the greater mystery. A murder mystery, a ghost story, a tragedy. Everything that happens happens for a reason, sometimes more than one. Clues, symbolism, themes, even events echo and overlap. Different elements connect different parts of the three stories so that they (should) intersect like puzzle pieces. The novels can be read separately or out of sequence, though I think the story makes more sense from the beginning.

       This here is the beginning. The main character, Dale Thompson, is a Quickie Mart co-manager coming to terms (or trying to) with his life, the rut. Big changes are in store though as he contemplates moving his family to a whole new life in a strange, remote little town. Raven Bend is told in five parts. Each is darker and more complicated than the last; character development and mystery give way to grisly events and strange paranormal experiences. By the end, the main story is solved and makes sense. Or should. However, the attentive reader will notice many details that seem superfluous. They are, of course, anything but.

       Until Part Two

       That’s it. See? Not so bad. Enjoy.

To the edge of night

I’ve searched for you—

From the land of the living

and the realm of the dead.

Maybe it’s all in my head,

An imagined affliction

separate from reason

that I put myself through.

No longer to retreat

behind my hesitant vanity,

I tear down the boundaries

and dare to forge ahead.

A chance to test my sanity

and sample defeat;

Removed from this addiction

as I seek the final clue.

RAVEN BEND

                              PROLOGUE

       LOCAL PHENOMENON WOWS VISITORS

       It’s located in a part of the forest where humans are unwelcome trespassers: a strange place encompassed by unrelenting wilderness, far from the outskirts and the final few isolated houses. The town itself isn’t very big; with a good wind you could probably spit from Garfield to Hemlock and the woods are never very far away. But this place seems distant in a way that defies physical measurement. You can’t use reasoning to get there. Compasses and maps are useless. Even a good sense of direction doesn’t help much. People stumble upon it either by accident or through some unknown sleight of mind.

       Most simply call it “The Spot”. (A few of the older residents cling to “Somewhere Elsewhere.”) Its identity has been a source of mystery and controversy for generations. Maybe it’s a strange energy or a gateway to something beyond conscious thought. Maybe a place where some dark history lives. No one can say for sure.

       Some say you should enter the trees on the east side of town; others insist that you get there from the bend in the road. But there is no single accepted point of entry. No specific landmarks. No guaranteed beginnings, middles, or even a definite end. Just a tangled wilderness filled with a variety of natural obstacles. When the water tables rise during the wet season things get especially tricky. In some places solid ground gives way suddenly to invisible springs, or maybe tributaries of nearby Dixon Creek, creating a mossy goop difficult to navigate.

       At least a few early explorers are rumored to have become permanent residents of this hazardous landscape. Ancient artifacts recovered from the backwater include camping gear and surveying equipment dating back to the 1700s. Nobody knows for sure exactly how they got there but several unsolved disappearances provide plenty of fuel for speculation, particularly in light of the area’s murky reputation.

       Most interactions with The Spot have been recorded between late winter and early summer, during the dry season when you can hike all the way to Dixon Creek without getting wet. By most estimates the spot is deep in the forest, close to the creek in an area often made impassible by moisture for months or years at a time. Every so often it emerges from its watery hibernation to become accessible to a few “lucky” pilgrims.

       The first thing to hit most explorers is The Aura, which seems to surround the spot (although some claim it’s a separate, more transient phenomenon). All the senses pick up on subtle changes in the jungle environment. Colors sharpen but the air shivers; ears ring softly as if detecting faint radio static. Nostrils tickle from the scent of old burlap and a rumor of decay. There’s a shudder of melancholy deep inside−−disbelief, denial. Even on the sunniest of days it’s impossible to ignore an acute sense of danger and isolation. The endless maze of trees closes in and you realize that getting out can be as much of a challenge as getting in.

       The spot itself is in a small clearing almost completely shaded by trees. For a few yards in each direction the tangle of tropical plant life gives way to a space filled with fungus and weeds that surround a vaguely rectangular slump in the land. Some claim the depression is a lonely grave lost deep in the wilderness but none have been daring enough to confirm their suspicions by digging. If the time is right a peculiar glow might also be visible there; a bluish tint in the air, fainter than the faintest mist. Many have also reported seeing dancing lights in the forest after dark—torch lights or candles, or maybe even a lantern.

       As the aura intensifies so does the sense of isolation. Some say you begin to perceive alien thoughts; others describe it as an almost indiscernible voice amongst the trees. You start to feel abandoned in the wilderness. Thoughts fill with foreboding and anxiety, as if leading up to some horrible truth. Air catches in the back of the throat. Leg muscles tighten. Formless words, like intuition, find their way into the mind. Get out. Find help. Every person that comes out of the forest reports feeling dread at some point. Like every fiber of their being was filled with fear and a desperate urge to get free of the trees.

       For more than a hundred years thrill-seekers and ‘mystics’ have traveled here to experience the phenomena. They arrive seeking some sort of insight but for many this knowledge comes at a price. The first wave came in the early 1800s, following the vague stories of surveyors and explorers. Word began to spread over the years, resulting in a small group of camp sights and crude buildings. A few entrepreneurial sorts eventually noticed the market potential and brought infrastructure to the wilderness. Buildings and roads, lodging, food, and other social necessities popped up miles from the nearest settlements. Some people drawn to the strange energy settled down, but their quest would not end happily. The town they formed, Casanegra, lasted just over thirty years on the brink of the unknown then it vanished from history as if it never existed.

       Records from that period are vague and dubious at best, making it hard to determine exactly what happened. There is credible evidence of wide-spread illness and questionable stories of rampant madness. The reality may be a grim combination of both. In the end over one hundred and thirty people met an untimely end. Practically overnight the town ceased to exist with no clear explanations or perpetrators. The handful of people that walked out alive refused to talk about it, giving rise to the suspicions and theories that thrive to this day.

       Naturally many people can’t help connecting the death of Casanegra to the strange force in the nearby woods. Sketchy documents record the possibility of a stranger bringing something out of the forest with him that spread amongst the residents but there is no verifiable name or other proof of his existence. Tales of a madman emerging from the woods also came up during brief discussions with some survivors, all of whom were reluctant to elaborate. In the dark aftermath few people ventured down the dirt road to look in on Casanegra’s haunted remains. But the aura remained. As did the place that came to be known as The Spot.

       A second wave of explorers eventually arrived and a new town was built on the ashes of the past. Many demons, both old and new have been encountered. Visitors still come seeking illumination but even to this day their presence creates an uneasy symbiosis between the living and the dead. The current community has flourished for over eighty years, yet the original residents are not so easily displaced. They have become part of the phenomena they first explored all those many years ago. As long as the curious of heart and mind probe the darkness they will never be forgotten. Night will bring remembrance, Death will hunger for time, and Tragedy will continue to hover like a specter waiting just around the bend.

As reported in The Dixon Herald Souvenir Edition, Spring, 1998.

PART ONE

DESTINY’S GATE

                   CHAPTER ONE

        THE BIG MEETING

       The brakes were squeaking again. Actually they made kind of a rusty scraping sound, like a wire brush being dragged across oxidized sheet metal. Every time Dale came to a stop he expected something to drop from the bottom of the car. Would it be the strut or the rotor? Or maybe the whole beast would just collapse into a smoking pile of shit.

       “It’s that place on the corner of Harlem and Lake Street,” he muttered. “That greasy weirdo with a bad case of b.o. He probably left the old break pads on and charged me for new ones. Putz.”

       His head throbbed with latent frustration, like a fuse that burns slowly but eventually has to reach powder. Dale Thompson just wanted to get along, dammit. Wasn’t it bad enough that suburban life was a colorless rut most of the time? Did it always have to suck on more than one level? He took a deep breath and let it crawl out, tried to focus.

       “Maybe it’s not the world outside that’s lacking color.” That’s what Pam would say. His significantly better half seemed committed to the idea of making Dale more outgoing and risky. “Diversity comes from within. Go out and seize the world.” She could go on like that for hours.

       Sometimes it felt like Pam was still clinging to the blind faith of youth, denying herself the opportunity to become pessimistic and jaded (like her husband). Even so, her vivacity was making Dale ask some hard questions of himself. Like—had he settled into a groove, or was it a rut? Pam must be doing something right. Mundane crap like the brakes grinding didn’t send her into a tailspin or fill her brain with sludge. Years ago Dale weathered such things much better too, but he just wasn’t on sound footing anymore. Waves of demoralized apathy were dragging the sand of his beach out to sea. Soon they would overtake his bungalow.

       As he sat idling at a never-ending stoplight his mind inadvertently filled with a tangle of “petty” concerns. Jodi’s trip to the doctor last week would require a payment toward his insurance deductible (It seemed like he always covered the deductible just in time for a new year to return him to zero.) And what about the blown compressor in the refrigerator? All that wasted food. It’s like—two days to replace a compressor? Please. Oh, and next week his homeowner’s premium would come due…almost forgot about that one. Bills and car repairs, mortgage payments and insurance premiums: they might be petty on their own but they sure add up.

       Under normal circumstances dwelling on his pitiful finances was a depressing exercise, carefully avoided. This afternoon it provided a brief distraction from his intended destination, exchanging one source of stress for another. Presently he was on his way to a meeting. Well, that’s not entirely right. More like a summons. He’d been called downtown for a pow-wow with some high level company brass but he couldn’t convince himself that it might be a good thing. In almost twelve years at the Quickie Mart it had never happened before, not even during his four years as a co-manager. Somehow it didn’t feel right.

       “Well, it’s not like they’d make you drive all the way downtown just to fire you. They could have Vince the Prince take care of that.”

       Right, so what else could it be, short of getting canned? “Maybe they’re investigating a Quickie Mart conspiracy,” he mused, letting his weary brain descend into its usual deadpan sarcasm. “Maybe there’s an illicit donut ring, or a lottery ticket scam, or maybe the hot dogs are tainted. Vincent could turn out to be a Quickie Mart Slushie kingpin, pushing his neon blue frozen sugar juice on prepubescent slush-heads.”

       Dale grinned with a quiet, slightly nervous sigh. Like whistling past the graveyard. His wick simmered but it didn’t burst into flame. Not even when he thought of Vincent, his corporate suck-up manager. The only way to deal with the guy was to laugh at him. Besides, right now he had bigger fish to fry. Big Meeting fish. Vincent was little more than a minnow flapping around in the bottom of the boat.

       “C’mon dude,” he exhaled, “settle down.” His hands closed on the well-weathered steering wheel and squeezed a little. “It’s probably just an overblown gripe from some entitled asshole. They might even congratulate you for putting up with twenty years of this crap.”

       Late afternoon sunlight filled his car but without much heat. It was a clear, cool spring day, otherwise he’d probably be drenched. (Add faulty AC to the list of petty concerns.) One of these days when he had the money and the inclination he would jump on that puppy, preferably before the onset of summer. For now he was grateful to mother nature for the help. He even had the windows rolled down. The air smelled fertile but it couldn’t shake a lingering threat of cold.

       ‘What about the meeting?’ his mind prodded, determined to spoil the nice day. He sighed with a dry swallow and scratched at a worn spot on the steering wheel cover. Rather than take things too seriously Dale opted to continue his droll musings. The truth would be out soon enough.

       So what was serious enough to warrant a face-to-face with company brass? Extortion maybe. They might have pictures of Dale handling the pump. Or how about a corporate blame shift? They could be setting him up to be a fall guy, to take the rap for their underperforming regional DM. Framing hourly wage bottom feeders might be as commonplace as taking out the trash. Stick him by the curb—he’s starting to get ripe. After all, a drop in quarterly earnings must be the doofy co-manager’s fault.

       Dale couldn’t help being pessimistic toward the job he both needed and despised. Every day was a mundane, repetitive slog, ripe with opportunities to be embarrassed or derided. Sure it paid the bills (most of them) but it didn’t nourish his mind at all. In fact, it formed one of the most critical foundational supports for his miserable disposition. Dale had plenty to claim responsibility for, no doubt, but the job exacerbated everything. Maybe it would be better if they were planning to fire him.

       He smiled in the sunshine and breathed a little easier. Getting dumped might have some unexpected fringe benefits. He could collect unemployment or find a new ambition, get risky for Pam. She worried about him too much. He would probably be a primary cause of stress wrinkles and gray hair in a few more years.

       Unfortunately Dale didn’t see himself ever leaving on his own. He thought about it and he talked about it, but not with much conviction. Quite frankly he just didn’t have the confidence, stamina, or gumption to start from scratch. And while Pam insisted they could get by for a while on her salary if needed, Dale felt like he would be depriving his family. Not that he wasn’t depriving them in other ways. Sometimes it seemed like Pam and Jodi wanted a change. He felt his grin wither to a smirk as the brakes cried out again with a coarse medley of rusty creaks.

       “One more block, buddy. One more block. Then march on up there, deep breath, and take whatever ridiculous shit they fling. It’ll match your stupid tie. What the hell, do it for Jodi.”

       He pictured his daughter’s youthful but studious face with a tired smile. She tended to rise above the stupidity surrounding her, much like her mother, although with a touch of the aloof sarcasm so crucial to her father’s character and sanity. Of course she was young, and still pretty much undamaged by the weight of the world, yet barring any unforeseen complications she had every chance at turning out well adjusted.

       He thought of the times, not too long ago, when he used to fall asleep in the recliner, wracked with annoyance and exhausted by frustration. He’d wake up to find a blanket covering him and a stuffed bear tucked under his arm. Jodi would be curled up at his feet in her p.j.s and bathrobe, lying on a pillow, watching Unsolved Mysteries or that Dragon Ball cartoon show with the volume turned down. His smile widened and then flattened. If nothing else he had to do right by Jodi and Pam, even if it meant soaking up more abuse. Which, as it turns out, was a given.

       At the green light Dale moved forward, continuing east down Kennedy Blvd in the far right lane. He tried to clear his mind but the only distraction came from his cluttered and chaotic urban surroundings. Downtown skyscrapers towered above him on every side, leaving only a small patch of blue sky visible directly above. Occasionally he passed an open lot or a trim lawn (one of which featured a crazy cubist sculpture); these were few and far between though. Mostly he found himself channeled down a narrow ravine comprised of steel and concrete and glass. Lots of brown and gray shades, very little green.

       Nearby, the bustling sidewalk teemed with a kinetic energy only busy cities can generate. People strolled or hurried, talked on cellphones, glanced at watches, all with a strange sense of disconnect from one another. He couldn’t help thinking that being in this environment every day must get really tiring. Or dehumanizing. Detaching from your fellow scurriers must be like a survival tactic.

       After a few minutes the human ant farm became too distracting so he narrowed his focus to the car directly in front of him. It looked like a Grand Am but the make and model plaques had been pried off. Part of the left rear fender was crushed from some kind of collision and a film of rusty residue lined the trunk edges. It wasn’t pretty but it made Dale feel a little better about his own car. His eyes blinked and moved up from the windshield to the grim reflection in the rearview mirror.

       Dale hadn’t slept well last night and it showed. His short brown hair was combed and his angular jaw neatly shaved but the space in between left much to be desired. Heavy eyelids, dark circles and dry, smirking lips neatly illustrated his solemn mood. Pam could sleep for ninety minutes and wake up looking like heaven. Dale would look like crap after a week of sleep and a bottle of Prozac. He could still detect a slight twinkle of optimism, mainly when he thought of his family, but it was assailed by stress lines and exploding blood vessels.

       The white car in front slowed to pass a taxi, then it turned right, into a massive parking garage. Dale read the street number above the entrance to the multi-level structure. 1610. He grabbed a sheet of white paper from the passenger seat and checked the instructions that Vincent had given him. PARKE PLAZA, 1612 KENNEDY AT THE CORNER OF LIONEL. USE PARKING FACILITY NEXT DOOR. GO TO FLOOR TWENTY-SEVEN, OFFICE 27-12. ELEVATORS AT WEST END OF GARAGE.

       He was on Kennedy; in the distance he could just make out a street sign that said Lionel. Most likely he’d arrived at the ‘parking facility’ next door. Only one way to find out for sure though. He turned right and pulled up to a little booth at the garage entrance as an older gent in a black security uniform leaned out of the window to greet him. Officer Coté was the name on the rented badge.

       “Afternoon sir,” the guard said with routine courtesy. “Are you a visitor?”

       “Dale smirked. “Visitor? I’m not sure that’s the right word. Is this, uh. . . is this parking for Parke Plaza?”

       “Parke Plaza, Reliance, and National Bank, yes sir.”

       “I’m here to see a Mister Donald Hughs of Unified Oil.”

       “By appointment?”

       Dale nodded and the guard punched a few keys on his computer keyboard, then scribbled something on a piece of paper.

       “Take the elevator up to floor twenty-seven. Hang a left and keep going until you get to room 27-12. Have Mister Hughs punch this card to verify your appointment and we’ll waive the parking fee.”

       Officer Coté handed Dale the paper and waved toward the garage.

       “First floor might be tight but there should be plenty of parking on Two and Three.”

       “Thank you, sir,” Dale smiled politely, to which the guard nodded and said ‘Have a nice day’. He probably repeated that hundreds of times in a shift. Thank you sir and Have a nice day, over and over until the passing minutes stick together. Dale commiserated. There are only so many ways you can half-heartedly greet someone you don’t know and profess a sincere desire to ‘be of service’ to them.

       Anyway here he was. Hot damn. Right on time, well maybe a minute late from the downtown traffic. He drove up a concrete ramp and began searching for a parking space. As the guard had predicted the first level was crammed, mostly with ‘beemers’ and Infinitis—the upwardly mobile wannabe high profile economic conglomerate crowd. So he headed up the next ramp. His anxiety began to dissipate a little.

       “Just get this over with and you can go home. Give Pam a shoulder massage.”

       Yeah, maybe have a beer, or better yet some cranberry juice with a ‘splash’ of vodka. Half an hour from now he would be driving away from downtown, laughing at the fact that he’d gotten his balls into such a furious uproar. But of course the question mark remained. It always came down to the question mark. Dale sighed and continued looking for a space. He thought of Pam and Jodi at home, TV and cold beer. Sanctuary, albeit a brief one…the release of evening is ultimately followed closely by the despair of morning. Tomorrow was his anniversary but in the end Dale feared it would be just another shiny happy day.

       Another opportunity to fill the soda racks and wallow in menial abandon, maybe think about something that had meaning years ago—drive or creativity. Then rotate the snack chips again. They hate it when the snack chips get stale. Who knows? Maybe after today he’d never have to straighten the damn things again. And wouldn’t that be a crying shame?

                  CHAPTER TWO

       EVER HEAR OF DIXON?

       As the elevator arrived on the twenty-seventh floor, Dale tried to steady his breathing. Polished silver doors slid open and he stepped into a subdued but sophisticated realm of deceptively modest executive-level simplicity, flavored by a distinctively scrubbed aroma. Like air fresheners on top of soap on top of newness.

       “They probably steam clean this place every day,” he murmured. “I’m sure they can afford to.”

       The burgundy carpet was plush and dirt-free; beige walls glowed in the soothing luster of hi-tech lamps. Even the potted plants had a comforting sheen. Dale wasn’t exactly a pump jockey but for some reason he suddenly felt like one. His brown uniform slacks and short-sleeved white shirt seemed cheesy and menial amongst the polished brass and cut flowers. This was the realm of go-getters—fast moving upper management power-lunchers and enterprising bootlickers standing in line to get spanked. Every office housed a college graduate; scholarly plaques peppered the walls with pronouncements of academic magnificence.

       Dale couldn’t help smirking as he peeked in the office doors, where clients lounged in gracious waiting rooms filled with ‘relaxed’ atmosphere and courtesy edibles. He always intended to finish college but it was looking less and less likely as the years passed. He knew a lot of people in this place were probably no brighter than him. But if he didn’t have the momentum to go out and get it done then how could he blame them? It’s like—even Vincent had a college degree.

       He sighed, that’s about all he could do. Hey—some people advance and some don’t. Some trade everything for a pile of gold and wind up living in self-inflicted isolation or well-funded anarchy, never getting enough. Maybe they don’t have a Pam or a Jodi in their lives. Not every family unit or relationship can survive the baggage of a fast track career. In that respect Dale could be considered lucky. But they’re all trade-offs, one way or another. No matter how talented and organized you are something often gets shoved aside. Prioritizing is the only way to navigate the insanity but even that doesn’t always work.

       “Twenty-seven, Eight. Twenty-seven, Nine,” he whispered to himself as he counted down to his destination. “Twenty-seven, Ten. Twenty-seven, Eleven.” His breathing increased a little but that was only natural—fight or flight. Dale steadied himself, paused, exhaled slowly before the door to office Twenty-seven, Twelve. Then he invited himself in, awkwardly trying to look serious and casual at the same time.

       The door opened onto a gracious waiting room. (What a surprise!) Nice and cozy but still very gracious. A silver coffee maker bubbled and whistled across from him, filling the air with a sturdy bean fragrance. (Definitely not Quickie Mart coffee.) Two emerald green chairs, a velour love seat, and an inlaid wood coffee table were situated on the left side of the room. A guy sat in one of the chairs, slouched down with a newspaper in front of his face, so that only his khaki pants were visible. Most likely some kid fresh out of business college, here to apply for a position in corporate management. Maybe Dale could be his do-boy, empty out his garbage, shine his shoes, shower him with insincere praise.

       He sighed and took note of a door directly across from him, as well as an L-shaped desk in the far-right corner, behind which a dark-haired young office assistant sat watching him with a disconcertingly focused gaze. (She looked like one of those ambitious protégés learning the inside skinny.)

       “Good afternoon, sir,” she said in a measured, professional-sounding voice brimming with enthusiasm.

       Dale approached the counter, taking note of the young woman’s name—Sara—as well as her snazzy white blouse and black blazer. The gig probably came from one of those classy downtown boutiques flaunting big names and even bigger price tags. The kind of place where Dale wouldn’t be able to afford a pair of socks.

       “What’s up,” he nodded, trying to act cool but feeling more menial than ever. He couldn’t even strangle himself with his own shit brown tie because the damn thing was a clip-on. “I’m, uh, here to see Mister Hughs.”

       “Do you have an appointment?” Sara smiled.

      Dale forced a heavy, earth-bound sigh, complete with tired, droopy eyelids. Is that what he had? An appointment?

       “You could say that. Mister Hughs called for me—some kind of meeting.”

       “You’re Dale Thompson?”

       Dale nodded (solemnly, for some reason). Yeah, unfortunately…

      Sara brightened up and stood to greet him. “Thank you for coming Mister Thompson. Mister Hughs has been expecting you.”

       “Yeah, well I kind of ran into traffic…”

       “Not to worry. It’s nothing urgent. Well, it isn’t and it is. He wants to discuss a proposition with you.”

      “Proposition hm?” Dale smirked and nodded with mock interest. Appointment. Proposition. He was starting to feel like a businessman, by gum. “Wonder what that could mean.”

       “Give him a chance, Mister Thompson. He may be a bear but he hardly ever bites…anymore. You might just be surprised.”

       “Mm, why not?” Dale muttered.

       Sara walked over to the inner door, beside the coffee table, and pushed it open for Dale. He nodded toward the guy reading the paper and raised his eyebrows. After all, khaki boy was there first. Sara smiled.

       “His appointment is after yours.”

      There’s that word again. Appointment. “I see.” Dale nodded a few more times—for no particular reason—and headed into the office. Sara waited until he had passed, then she eased the door shut behind him.

       “Good luck. Give a holler if you need anything,” she said before vanishing.

      Dale was about to ask for a beer but he figured he shouldn’t advertise his alcoholic tendencies. They probably wouldn’t know a good brew if it bit ‘em in the ass, anyway— this place seemed more like the domain of cognacs and vintage wines, not cold beer. The surroundings had gotten more extravagant, if that was even possible. (To boldly go where no hourly wage has gone before.) Everything in the spacious office had an ethereal luster, simple but magnificent, quiet and regal. A bit of polished brass here, a touch of velvet and mahogany there. It all looked brand new, straight out of some swanky showroom. Shit, even a bunch of inanimate office accouterments were making Dale feel self-conscious!

       “Come in,” a low voice called from across the room. “Please come in, Mister Thompson, avail yourself of my humble hospitality.”

       “Humble he calls it,” Dale muttered in his best Kirk Douglas impression. You do right well for yourself, mate. But the calm face that greeted him as he crossed the silver carpet was hardly Captain Nemo. It wasn’t even James Mason.

       The office was longer than it looked from the door, big enough for two or three less important offices. At the far end, bathed in sunlight from a tall window with red curtains, a sturdy but gray gentleman sat hunched over a massive mahogany desk. Two red leather easy chairs sat before the desk; otherwise the only other ‘furniture’ included a few stylish bookcases along the left and right walls. Buildings in the downtown area could be seen shining in the window behind the desk, reflecting the orange glow of a slowly reclining sun.

       Mister Hughs didn’t look up right away, even when Dale walked over and stood quietly between the two recliners. His sharp gaze was focused on a strange little gizmo sitting in the middle of his desk, a roughly ten-inch high cylinder made of glass or plastic, with a black top and bottom. Inside the cylinder, tiny beads of blue liquid rolled down a green spiral ramp. Some kind of dropper in the top was dropping them out in rapid succession; with quiet regularity they slid along the ramp, making their way to the base of the cylinder. Then—plop! They dropped off a final precipice and gathered at the bottom in a clutter of blue beads. One after another. Plop! Plop! Plop! Dale quickly grew transfixed himself.

       After a minute the beads became less frequent, gradually thinning to a slow, tired trickle. A few random stragglers made their way down, then the plopping ceased altogether as one last blue bead completed its winding journey. Now Mister Hughs looked up at Dale but his gaze felt anything but entranced or distracted. Rather it was sharply focused, intent and thoughtful. He addressed Dale with a smooth, somewhat smoky sounding voice underlined by a hidden growl.

       “Quite a mesmerizing gadget, isn’t it? I like to think of it as a model. The meaning of life in a glass jar. Out you pop, then down a steady spiral and over the edge. Quite relaxing. Like watching fish, you know—good for the blood pressure. But I digress. How is Mister Dale Thompson doing this afternoon? I trust your trip downtown was a royal pain in the ass?”

       Dale felt his mouth slowly opening but nothing came out.

      “Never mind. It’s all part of the urban thrill-ride. I’m glad you could make it down though. I’m Donald Hughs, Vice President of Operations for Unified Oil.”

       Mister Hughs held out his hand with a friendly smile. After a hesitant pause Dale shook it once, noting its firm, powerful grip. Hughs wore his age well but he was no spring chicken. From his thinning white hair to the steely blue eyes swimming in a sea of wrinkles, he had seen a lot of mileage, perhaps sixty-five to seventy years’ worth. It didn’t seem to dampen his intensity or exuberance though.

       “I know who you are, Mister Hughs,” he admitted.

      “Do you?” Hughs said. Of course you do, I’m in all the training videos…I’m sure you got a kick out of watching those. But how much of me do you know, I wonder?”

       Normally Dale would respond to such a question with a healthy dose of embittered sarcasm. Under the circumstances that didn’t seem like the best approach, so he shook his head and shrugged, keeping his troublesome lips firmly pushed together.

       “I’m sure you probably see me as a typical high-rolling office jockey,” Hughs continued with a smirk. “Splitting the capitalist boons of American free trade with my fat cat cohorts. Well,” here he shrugged and seemed to laugh inside, “you’re probably right. But it’s really just a job. Now you. I did my homework on you, Mister Thompson.”

       Hughs sat upright and cleared his throat before continuing in a more professional tone.

      “Mister Dale Thompson (no middle name). Age: thirty-three. You have a wife, Pamela Marie, age thirty-two; and a daughter, Judith Amelia, or ‘Jodi’, age twelve. For over eleven years you’ve been working at a suburban Quickie Mart, four as co-manager. During that time, you’ve, um, expressed strong feelings about your parent company.

      Dale couldn’t stop a worried look from creeping onto his face as he recalled some of his vitriolic rants, many issued in front of Vincent. With his penchant for insubordination they’d probably have him scrubbing toilets by the end of the day. Except Mister Hughs didn’t really look like some grumpy old stick-up-the-ass itching to discipline a malcontent. He had a pleasant, conversational stance, leaning on his desk and smiling.

      “It’s not necessarily a handicap, son,” he assured. “Being frank and passionate I mean. Some of the dumbest people around think that if you mindlessly regurgitate company propaganda it makes up for being incompetent. You seem like a bright and steadfast young man Dale, vocal about your concerns, sure, but not trivial or needlessly petulant. But I sense something else, too. That’s why I called you down here.”

       Mister Hughs paused, leaving his final statement unexplained. He waved toward the leather recliners in front of him and moved his spiral bead thingee off to the side of his desk.

       “Sit, relax. You’re getting paid. Besides, I’ll make sure you get home to Pamela at a decent time.”

      Dale smirked and took a seat in the left recliner, which happened to be pretty damn comfortable. He wanted to smile but he had trouble letting down his guard, especially around someone with a folder-full of his transgressions and the power to disembowel him.

    “Cigar?” Hughs held out a green cigar box trimmed with gold foil designs. They were probably high quality smokes but Dale gave up tobacco almost two years ago. If he came home reeking Jodi would skin him.

       “No,” he said, shaking his head, then added “uh, thank you, sir” as an afterthought.

      Hughs nodded and put the box away. “I always ask. Sara my assistant bought these for me as a gift last year. They’re decent cigars but the smoke stinks and gets into everything. Now, let’s get down to business. I don’t suppose you have any idea what you’re doing here.”

       Dale leaned forward and hunched over with his forearms on his thighs, hands joined, and the most serious business expression possible brooding on his face.

       “No, not really. Sara said something about a proposition. Other than that…” Dale shrugged. “You got me.”

      “Got you? I’m hoping I do. A proposition? Yes, a proposition of sorts. Although Job Offer might be more to the point.”

      “Oh?” Dale became attentive, and a bit confused. Mister Hughs seemed affable enough but why would a VP need to pitch job openings to a lowly Quickie Mart co-manager. It didn’t make any sense.

       “Let me ask you a question, Dale. Do you believe in the so-called ‘paranormal’?”

       “The paranormal?” Dale couldn’t help sounding perplexed. “You mean, like ghost stories and stuff?”

       “More than stories. I’m talking real life here.”

       “I just never gave it much thought.”

       “Would you consider yourself a pragmatist?”

      “Sure, you could say that. I mean, I’ve never seen a ghost. Now that I think of it I guess I’m more of a skeptic.”

       Hughs nodded, his gaze focused on Dale. “Good, excellent. Nothing wrong with a little pragmatic skepticism.”

       “Pardon me, sir,” Dale began uneasily. “Pardon me, I mean if I’m out of line or anything, but I’m not sure we’re on the same page.”

      “Chapter, page, whatever. We’ll get there. But there’s no need to act subservient. I’m an old man with little tolerance for stale pleasantries.”

       “I’m sorry,” Dale smirked, “but I’m a co-manager and you’re, like, seventeen levels up the ladder, sir. It’s pretty much the lay of the land.”

      Hughs shrugged. “Maybe. As if that really matters to you.”

       “Excuse me?”

       “According to my field sources when it comes to people like me you don’t suffer any idiots. Can’t say I blame you.”

       “Someone actually said that?” Dale fell back, temporarily stunned.

       “Not in those words,” Hughs chuckled. “But I’m a pretty good judge of character. Climbing those seventeen steps up the ladder, well you start to learn how to read people. And I read you as an earnest, straightforward person intolerant of bullshit. I like that, so relax.”

       Dale nodded but kept his guard up, just in case. Anyway what did any of this have to do with a job offer?

       “Thirty-three years old,” Hughs exhaled dreamily. “Seems like a million years ago. You have any hobbies, Dale?”

       Dale shrugged, oblivious. Not following the conversation at all.

       “I used to collect business cards,” Hughs continued in the same dreamy tone. “Ever since I was in college. By the time I was your age I had over four thousand from all over the world. They’re in a carton somewhere,” he muttered aside. “Maybe in storage…”

       Dale didn’t even move this time. He just listened with a subtle expression of expectation.

       “Are you happy with your life?” Hughs said abruptly. He was sitting back in his office chair, impeccable suit still fresh after a long day of seizing the power. His question almost seemed like more of an extension of his own thoughts, rather than something employed specifically for Dale. The provocative query echoed a few times while Dale examined the maze of wrinkles on the weathered face before him, trying to read Hughs and failing miserably. None of this made a bit of sense.

      “Happy?” Dale managed to get the word out but he faltered and continued to turn the question over. Happy? Defined how? His forehead bunched and his lips pressed into a thin line. Hughs read the dumbfounded look easily.

       “Are you satisfied? Do you feel comfortable with your life? Is it fulfilling? Is it want you want it to be?”

      “Well no, not particularly. Not always.” Dale tried to choose his words carefully. “You know—sometimes I get in a groove and I just don’t think about it. I guess it’s okay. I mean, I love Pam and Jodi, no question there. I have food on the table, a roof and a thirty-one-inch tv. But—”

       “Something’s missing, perhaps.”

      Dale shrugged. “I guess it’s kind of redundant sometimes. Like, there are days when the whole world seems like a petty, insignificant pain in the ass.”

        “I see.”

       “Not that I hate my job, sir,” Dale said quickly. At this rate he’d wind up getting shipped out to some shithole in Backwater, Alaska.

     “It’s alright,” Hughs smiled. “I understand. Working in a mini-mart every day becomes repetitive. The routine saps you dry, makes you wonder what the point of it all is.”

         “Yeah.”

      “You start off young with big ideas and big convictions. But it all winds up a mindless daily glut of mediocrity—the same complaining customers, the same dusty shelves and glass cases to stock. The same irritating catatonics in your employ,” he added in a confidential whisper. “It saps your will to live. But you get stuck, trapped under indecision and responsibility. The need to change is just as daunting as the need to stay.”

       Okay, that one got by him. This might have been a fellow clock puncher sitting there in that wrinkle-free Armani suit, talking about The Routine. Dale fumbled with words and shook his head.

       “Exactly. That’s exactly right. But how—”

       Hughs eased back with a wink. “Well I wasn’t always a Vice President of Operations, Dale. I stood behind a cash register and filled windshield wash basins for almost two years. Then I got tired of the bull, said ‘what the hell’ and moved up those seventeen steps.”

       Like it was really that easy. Just wake up one morning, say ‘to hell with the bullshit’, and decide to become Vice President in Charge of Operations. Now Dale couldn’t hold back a smile. Hughs pulled open one of his desk drawers and removed a manilla file folder. He placed it on his desk, flipped through the papers inside and faced Dale again, this time with his eyebrows raised.

      “Here’s the scoop, Dale. You ever hear of Dixon?”

       Dale shook his head.

      “No you wouldn’t have. It’s a small, nondescript town; barely a dot on the map down in North Central Florida, one lonely turn off a lonely highway and a three-mile drive through forest and swamp to the middle of bumfuck Egypt. Whoops. Sorry.”

       “Huh?”

       “Profanity. I’m trying to cut back, you know.”

       Dale shook his head and shrugged. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

       “Protocol, son,” Hughs nodded. “I’m a big-shot, remember? Got to maintain protocol. Anyway, we have a service station out there by the interstate. A crusty little place but it sells gas. Matter of fact it’s the only station for miles. Everyone from the town of Dixon buys gas there. There’s a garage, too. And a mechanic. Some chips and soft drinks by the counter. I need a store manager, someone that can put two and five together and not get twenty-five. I need someone to get out there and get it going again before some other company sees the hole in the market and erector-sets a few pumps and a cash register across the street.”

       “Me, sir? You want me to?”

       Okay, so this wasn’t what he’d expected. In fact he wouldn’t have expected it any more than if Hughs told him cows were about to start coming out of his ass. Dale take over a station? Move his family? Start a new life? The facets of the sudden proposition swirled in Dale’s mind as Mister Hughs continued.

     “I’ve thought about it for the last few days, considered my options. I’m comfortable you’re my best bet, Dale.”

      “Shouldn’t it go to someone more qualified?” Dale said. “Or with more seniority?”

      “More than twelve years? People with less tenure and experience than you get promoted to Station Manager all the time. They’re so proficient at kissing ass that it overthrows judgment. But to answer your question: personnel did offer it to several other people already. Basically they went right on down the company wish list. Every one of them declined, that’s why it was brought before me.

        “How many? How many turned it down?”

      “Forty-three.” Hughs nodded solemnly. “From various stations in different cities.”

      “Forty-three?” Dale gasped. He didn’t know whether to be shocked or offended. “Well I guess they must’ve had good reasons.”

       “They were good reasons to them, which is really all that matters.”

      Dale stared blankly as Hughs examined him again. He was getting ready to reveal something—it was evident in his rumpled brow and narrow, focused gaze.

       “You say you’re skeptical when it comes to the paranormal, Dale. So you’re probably not superstitious.”

        “No. But, I mean, I really don’t see the point—”

    “People get uneasy about some things. The company has a disclosure policy that, well, it requires us to reveal any circumstances of substance surrounding a particular post to prospective employees.”

       “Uh-huh.”

     “The manager you’d be replacing died under dubious circumstances. Apparently a few deluded weirdos think witchcraft or some other kind of mystical nonsense is involved.”

       “Oh?” Dale cocked his eyebrows and blanched a little. “Why would they think that?”

       “It seems the town of Dixon is filled with a bunch of occultists and mystic types. Psychics, fanatics, alchemists, whatever.”

          “Not exactly my cup of tea.”

       “I’m sure most of them are perfectly nice people, if not a little weird. The thing is, there are facts about the death of our manager that haven’t been fully disclosed. The initial story around town was that he died of natural causes but there may be more to it that hasn’t been released due to an ‘ongoing investigation’. I don’t want to sell you a job under false pretenses. I want you to know what you’d be in for. It’s a strange little community, supposedly host to paranormal events. But I’m not here to analyze the psychology. I need a manager—someone who can seize the reigns and look beyond the bullshit. Sorry.”

       “It’s okay sir. I don’t get offended very easily. I mean, you probably know that anyway, with your notes and field sources and stuff. But I’m not sure about the job. You know, I mean, I’m not sure if it’s for me.”

       “Maybe not. But I’m thinking it would be an interesting venture, a chance to break loose from the routine. An adventure even.”

       Dale scoffed. “An adventure?”

       “More so than the daily grind in a thankless job. Think about it Dale. You’d be your own boss. We’ll double your salary. We’ll even locate a residence for you and take care of the move. All I need is a two-year commitment. As a bonus you’ll receive points every month toward a percentage of ownership in the station. At the end of the contract you’ll have the option to cash in or sign a new deal.”

       “Mm, I don’t know,” Dale smirked. The package seemed a little too ‘dressed for presentation’. Like a shiny fast food photo of the perfect hamburger that disguises the real deal: stringy beef oozing with grease and brown, wilted lettuce. “There’s my wife and daughter to consider.”

       “Naturally.”

       “I mean, I’d hate to make them stay somewhere they don’t like for two years.”

       “How’s this: I’ll give you ninety days trial period to decide, no strings attached. Go out there and give it a try. If you don’t like it you can have your old post at the Quickie Mart back.”

       Now it almost seemed like Hughs was haggling with him. Dale hesitated, looked at his feet and shifted in the chair. This decision really wasn’t for him to make. Seriously. He wouldn’t do it if Jodi and Pam had any misgivings. Not that he even wanted it himself. A few seconds passed in silence before Hughs spoke again. He closed the file and slid it across the desk with a nod. Dale shuffled his feet.

      “Why don’t you think about it. Discuss it with your family. Read up on it. I don’t want to rush you but an answer by Friday would really help me. This thing is a major thorn in my ass. Just between you and me I’m hoping to retire pretty soon. I’d really like to leave a clean desk behind. But if you have even the slightest doubts, no worries. We’ll shake hands and forget the whole thing.”

       Hughs made it all sound so casual; just make up your mind about changing your whole life, but don’t take too long about it. Gotta clear that desk out and retire!

      Dale took the file and stood, feeling a little bewildered. His brain was suddenly crammed with a lot of terribly difficult questions that hadn’t been there ten minutes ago. Mister Hughs rose and shook his hand, looking every bit the slick businessman, with the exception of the twinkle in his eyes. Dale wanted to trust Hughs but his thoughts were clouded by a mixture of uncertainty and suspicion.

      “I’ll contact you with my response,” he said stiffly and turned to leave. A little inadequate perhaps but he was pretty flustered. As he began walking across the office he heard Hughs address him in a soft voice that was firm with confidence.

      “You’re a good man, Dale. I can feel it. I believe you’re the right man for the job.”

      Dale paused, turned back to Hughs for a second, squinted, and shrugged. Then he left the office and headed for home, wondering if his termination wouldn’t have been better after all.

Shades of Night presents

New Blood

A Novel by Daniel Smid

All text and artwork

©Copyright 2017 Daniel Smid

(Amended Draft ©Copyright 2025 Daniel Smid)

ISBN # 979-8-9997036-0-6

Contents

Contents…………………………………………….3

The First Shade: An Introduction…………..4

Ch. 1………………………….………………………..6

Ch. 2……………………………….…………………..9

Ch. 3……………………………………………………12

Ch. 4……………………………………………………15

Ch. 5……………………………………………………20

Ch. 6……………………………………………………24

Ch. 7……………………………………………………29

Ch. 8…………………………….….…………………34

Ch. 9……………………………………………………39

Ch. 10…………………………………………………..44

Ch. 11…………………………………….……………..50

Ch. 12……………………………………….…………..55

Ch. 13…………………………………………………..60

Ch. 14…………………………………………………..65

Ch. 15…………………………………………………..72

Ch. 16…………………….…………………………..79

Ch. 17………………………..………………………..81

Ch. 18……………………….………………………..84

Ch. 19……………………….………………………..88

Ch. 20……………………….………………………..92

Ch. 21…………………….................……………..96

Ch. 22…………………………...……………...….101

Ch. 23…………………………………………….…108

Ch. 24……………….………………………………113

Ch. 25………………….………….…………………119

Ch. 26………….……………………………………124

Ch. 27…………………………………………………128

                                                   The First Shade:

                                                   An Introduction

       I’ll make this brief. The following story is the first in a series of five books about a ghost hunting team based out of Sedona, Arizona. Their last mission was covered in the novel Dixon Gas.

       During that investigation a corrosive darkness was unleashed, resulting in tragedy for the beleaguered team. Now, short a member and trying to find their footing, they are about to embark on a new series of missions. In addition to finding a replacement tech person they endeavor to launch their first ghost hunt since returning home.

       New Blood, as well as its companion novels, is its own story but it combines with the four following volumes to tell a single larger tale centered around the eclectic personas of the newly reformed team. Five stories. Five separate ghost investigations. Five different shades of night.

       Their journey will involve adventure, humor, mystery, pathos, even darkness and horror, as six very dissimilar characters try to bond through their shared encounters with the paranormal. Funding for the budding enterprise comes from a rich businessman in Dixon, Florida; their ultimate goal is to film a TV show pilot. And they’re aided and abetted in their endeavors by a group of off-beat cameo characters, from a rock-hoarding geologist and a self-proclaimed vampire, to a former pathologist with a dubious past and a quirky innkeeper with a dubious present.

       All journeys begin with a beginning. A first shade. As the past is laid to rest a new and compelling chapter unfolds for Nightshade Investigations. (By the way, that’s the team’s name—kinda figured I should mention that.)

       Let the adventure begin!

       1.

       It was another beautiful, sunny day in West Sedona, Arizona. Warm light drenched the red rocks and fueled their soothing aura. And it was dry. Completely dry. Like a bleached bone.

       Caroline Richards welcomed the dry air though. She recently returned from a fateful trip to Florida, where the humidity ranged from stifling to suffocating. Being in the desert again restored her sense of normalcy, even as the swampy adventure simmered in her thoughts. The humidity might be thousands of miles away but her memory of it remained as vivid and immediate as that life-altering journey.

       For the last year Caroline had acted as chief architect and rudder of the paranormal investigation team Nightshade Investigations. The enterprise started out as a curiosity. Caroline lost her mother to cancer several years ago and yearned to find her again. Maybe the whole story came off as silly to a lot of people but she began traveling down a path that seemed natural. Along the way she met several people that shared her “obsession”. Or at least they pretended to on different levels. Plus they all expressed interest in her plan to create a TV show.

       Then the newly minted group went to Dixon, Florida…

      With a deep exhale Caroline peered out the front window of their little rented former pizza parlor. 89A buzzed with activity, most of it tourist traffic. Ever since tourists discovered Sedona the face of the place had changed, some might say for the worst. At any rate the quiet little town had begun to blossom. Turning back was not a viable option.

       Most of today had been spent cleaning and organizing, trying to turn the old restaurant into a proper headquarters. Caroline wore stone-washed jeans and a faded pink T-shirt. Her blond hair slumped backwards in a messy ponytail. Every now and again she paused to twist the ring on her left hand, which had become a strange habit over the years. The ring was passed down from her grandmother by way of her mother and its shimmering green stone supposedly had powers of protection. (At least that’s what the witch in Dixon claimed.) Caroline smirk-smiled and gave it one more twist.

       “Hey Cary,” a voice called from the back room, “what do you want to do with all of these old pizza boxes?”

      The brusque feminine voice belonged to Nightshade’s resident researcher Joyce Koenen, who emerged from the “kitchen” area seconds later holding an armful of white cardboard boxes. Joyce stood several inches shorter than Caroline. The red-haired, acid-tongued daughter of a divorced truck driver, her decidedly plain, unassuming exterior contrasted sharply with her snarky personality. She had also been with Caroline longer than anyone. Now that Jesse was gone.

       “Hey. Hello. Cary hon, you all right?” Joyce had noticed Caroline’s unexpected silent frown.

       “Just a stray thought,” Caroline assured. But Joyce knew better.

       “You were thinking about Jesse, weren’t you?”

       Caroline twisted her ring faster. “I couldn’t help it.”

       Joyce nodded with a smirk that covered much darker feelings. They were all still coping with the death of their friend and partner Jesse Haskell, a casualty of the Dixon trip. Something horrible had been unleashed in that remote little Florida town. It consumed more than twenty people including poor, sweet, quiet Jesse. Two weeks had passed since his funeral; the wounds were still very much fresh. As they stood there staring at each other Caroline could see the buried distress lurking in Joyce’s eyes.

      “I know what you mean,” Joyce said. “I keep expecting him to walk out of the back room with that funny little smile.”

        Caroline sighed. “It still doesn’t seem real.”

       Jesse was one of the nicest people either of them had known, tall and meaty with dark curly hair and puppy dog eyes. His parents had died in a car wreck when he was young. As the sole survivor of the accident he carried a lot of undeserved guilt along with him. Most likely that factored into his suicide but external elements in Dixon may have provided the final impetus. To make a horrible situation even worse Jesse had been their tech guy, the person that made the whole operation work.

       Despite all that the team agreed to move on with their plan to film a TV show. Fortunately they had a billionaire named Donald Hughs funding their exploits—the one high point of the Dixon trip. And they’d already heard from a prospective new tech person.

      “Anyway.” Caroline took a deep breath. “We won’t need those boxes so just put them out back with all the recycling stuff.”

      “You sure? If things don’t work out with the ghost hunting we could always start up a pizza parlor, give Picazzo’s some competition.”

       “I’d rather buy a pizza than make one.”

      “Or we could do a combo thing. You know, if you don’t get your pizza in fifteen minutes your next ghost investigation is free.”

       Caroline couldn’t help smiling. “I’m gonna hafta still go with no.”

      “Think about it. Nightshade Pizza and Pasta.”

      “Nope. Besides, all of the ovens are already sold.”

      “Suit yourself.”

      Joyce knew how to break through the murk. She really looked so plain, with her white shorts, olive green tank top and simple shoulder-length hairstyle. Very unassuming but her diminutive stature and average exterior concealed an outsized, some would say fiery personality.

      “Did someone say pizza?” a voice shouted from the back room.

      Joyce might have an outsized personality but she received plenty of competition from the rest of NI’s resident nut cases. In this case Stewart Franz. “Stewie” (a nickname he hated) brought up the rear in terms of age. As the youngest of the group he often exhibited more naivete than his peers but he also had a sweet demeanor and willingness to learn.

      “I want pepperoni on mine,” another voice piped in. This one carried a certain dry smugness. Kyle Simmons might only be a year younger than Caroline but it never seemed like it. His peevishness and mischievous streak were not only annoying at all the wrong times, they also provided a bad influence for easygoing, impressionable Stewart.

      “No pizza,” Caroline barked with an accidental grin. “Now get back to work.”

     Two figures emerged from the back room. Kyle led the way with Stewart close behind. Bad influence indeed. Although if it hadn’t been for Stewart, Kyle never would have joined the team. They were roommates at the time and Kyle figured “why not me too?” Both liked playing video games and acting petulant. They helped operate cameras, performed night vigils (often a hilarious sight), and complained way too much.

       “We’ve been working all morning,” Kyle whined.

    Caroline laughed sarcastically. “That’s debatable.”

      “Pizza would give us energy,” Stewart said, trying to sound logical.

      “Which would be squandered anyway.”

     Both young men slumped around and made faces. In many ways they might be twins. Similar of height, wearing similar T-shirt and shorts combos. Stewart was slightly thinner with brown hair and a little moustache that still looked strange on him. Kyle’s blond hair needed a comb and the hazel eyes behind his brown glasses were noticeably more piercing.

       “Plus,” Joyce added, “it’s a waste of pizza.”

       Stewart gasped. “We would never waste pizza!”

      “I mean it would be a waste just giving it to you guys.”

      “That’s not very nice.”

       Joyce shrugged. “Sue me.”

      “If only we could,” Kyle muttered.

      “You wouldn’t get much.”

      A year into this arrangement and Caroline still felt like a beleaguered mother. Joyce tended to be more mature but she often contributed to Kyle and Stewart’s antics. The thing is, after all they’d been through it was kind of nice to see them joking again.

      “You all get a per diem from Donald,” Caroline said. “If you want pizza pay for it yourself. Otherwise keep cleaning. Remember: the sooner we get this place set up the sooner we can start working on a new mission.”

      “But we don’t like cleaning,” Stewart protested.

      “Nobody does. Now hop to it.”

     A smile was playing on Caroline’s lips. Every time she looked at Stewart with his goofy little moustache and half-grin she had to stop herself from being amused. Somebody needed to be the adult. Was that really Caroline’s role? The resident adult?

      Before any more objections could be voiced, the front door of the shop opened, causing the little bell on top to jingle. Four sets of eyes turned to the entrance as the fifth (and for now final) member of the team walked in.

       2.

       Roger Forester was a psychic. In fact he was their psychic. Most of the group were dubious of Roger’s abilities until the trip to Dixon, which very nearly finished him off. He spent most of the time sleeping in the team’s battered black van and veering between bouts of puking. Even Joyce, the most skeptical of the group, had begun to feel that maybe, just maybe his shtick wasn’t a deceitful performance.

       Finding Roger had been a seminal moment for Caroline. The idea of having a psychic on the team seemed to shift her plans into overdrive. At that point she had four people in her brigade, including Jesse and Joyce. Stewart and Kyle followed a few months later to round out the group. Right from the get-go Roger and Joyce became adversaries. Maybe it had something to do with Roger’s self-important air, which derived from being born into an affluent family. Even though Roger had been disowned by his father for becoming a psychic, his inherited preciousness seemed to collide with Joyce’s blue collar bluntness.

       At least they were both mature enough to work together, and after their experiences in Dixon they treated one another with greater respect, sometimes masked by sniping and sarcasm sure, but Caroline knew it was there. And if those two could get along then Nightshade Investigations might not be a total failure.

       “Hey Rog,” Caroline said. “How’d it go?”

     Roger strode into the room with his trademark dour veneer set firmly in place. The man stood tall, dwarfing everyone (especially now that Jesse was gone) and he always wore slacks and dress shirts. At times he almost seemed humorless but that could be an act.

    “Predictably,” he replied with a sigh. (He definitely sounded a little stiff. Maybe a result of his home schooling?) “It wasn’t the first self- proclaimed vampire I’ve met. Unfortunately he might drink blood and wear a lot of dark clothes but I couldn’t sense anything supernatural about him.”

         “Bummer.”

      “He did give me this though, as a token of friendship. He said we could hang it in our new lair.”

        Roger reached into the pocket of his beige sport jacket and pulled out a small glass vial filled with deep red liquid. He passed the vial to Caroline, who examined it with uncertainty.

        “What on earth is this?”

     “Goat’s blood. He killed a goat in his house yesterday to replenish his blood supply. I guess this is his idea of a good luck totem.”

        Joyce laughed out loud. “That’s just the kind of luck we need.”

      “I’m sure he meant well,” Roger smirked. “He expressed a genuine interest in forming a professional relationship.”

       “Hey,” Kyle said, crossing his arms and scowling. “How come we have to clean while Roger gets to hang out with vampires in Flagstaff?”

        “Yeah,” Stewart predictably added.

       “Roger was doing recon work,” Caroline replied. After the Dixon trip everything had been put on hold while they all grappled with some heavy issues. Now that things were flowing again it seemed prudent to get better grounded before attempting another long road trip.

        “Why can’t we do recon work?” Kyle wondered.

        Then Stewart again: “Yeah, why not?”

    Caroline sighed. “Haven’t we had this conversation before?”

       “Probably,” Kyle shrugged.

       “Roger’s the psychic. He’s trying to find leads to help us plan future investigations.”

       “Plus I don’t think manual labor was part of his curriculum,” Joyce couldn’t help sniping.

      Roger lowered his gaze at Joyce but didn’t respond in kind. He’d grown accustomed to her digs at his privileged upbringing. The thing is, oddly, Roger actually agreed with her. He grew more offended when she questioned his psychic abilities.

       “When you guys become clairvoyant you can go out testing sights for possible hauntings,” Caroline said evenly. “In the meantime…”

       “They’re right,” Roger unexpectedly admitted. “I should pitch in just as much as everyone else. This is supposed to be a team. So? What can I do to help out?”

       The words were delivered with an icy edge but they sure silenced the gripes. For once Kyle and Stewart didn’t know how to respond. Joyce fought a smile and gestured toward the stack of pizza boxes.

     “Those boxes can go out back with the recycling.”

       Roger gave a little sneer. “My pleasure.”

      Caroline shook her head as Roger bent down and picked up the stack of boxes. Roger realized he had no cause to act superior, since reconciliation with his father would never happen. He was just as broke as the rest of them, dependent on a rich guy living thousands of miles away. None of them really had anywhere else to go.

       “Thanks for manning up, Rog,” Caroline said. “If no one else wants to say it I will. Right now we’re trying to clear out space in the back room for all of the new equipment. Any help would be appreciated.”

       “Of course. Incidentally I made another stop in Flagstaff.”

       “Oh?”

       “Pete the vampire directed me to a residential haunting. I met with the homeowner and got a good feel for the place.”

       “And?”

       “I believe you were looking for an investigation nearby.”

     “Seriously?!” Caroline couldn’t contain her excitement. They had found a couple of good leads in Sedona, along with a few in Jerome and Clarkdale but so far nothing concrete had materialized. Caroline was counting on Roger to sniff out a good location. “So I guess the networking has already paid dividends.”

       “It has. I didn’t tour the house but I definitely sensed a presence. I’ve written down all of the information for Joyce.”

       “Well, I think everyone owes Roger a thank you for going that extra distance. Huh? Whattaya say?”

       Joyce, Kyle, and Stewart muttered very insincere sounding thank-yous but they all hated being wrong. Roger accepted the sloppy gratitude with a bemused grimace. To his credit he resisted the urge to gloat even though his expression betrayed a hint of smugness.

       As Roger walked back to the rear exit with his armful of old pizza boxes Joyce nodded toward the little vial in Caroline’s hand.

         “So whatcha gonna do with that thing?”

       “I don’t know,” Caroline shrugged. “I’ve never been gifted with goat’s blood before.”

       “Why don’t we like, start a collection of weird totems and stuff,” Kyle said, offering a rare constructive suggestion. “We could have oddities and photos and use them to decorate the place.”

         “That’s not a bad idea.”

         “We could even use some of my photos.”

       Kyle had been designated Team Photographer, mainly in response to the complaint that he didn’t have a distinctive role. The truth is he had talent as a photographer so the designation made sense.

        “Of course. But for now Kyle, honey…”

        “Yeah?”

        “Can we please finish with the cleaning?!”

          3.

       The back room of the old pizza parlor originally housed a mousy kitchen. So far most of the pizza ovens and other heavy equipment had been removed, leaving a bunch of utensils and clutter to sort through. The whole parcel occupied a relatively small space. Out front, six dowdy booths along the left wall faced a long glass counter with a cash register hutch (the register had long since been discarded) and a window to the kitchen. Behind the counter old ice cream coolers and a soda fountain were all up for sale. Good thing they had Donald Hughs because if they had to survive on the proceeds of selling the second-hand equipment they’d be screwed.

       The stainless-steel countertops in the kitchen were staying and Kyle was turning the storage room into a photography lab capable of handling both print and digital. The main change would be the addition of several computer stations, TV screens and equipment cabinets. Boxes of as-yet-to be assembled new furniture were piled around the room and most of the countertops were covered with camera equipment that still had to be set up and tested, hopefully by someone with tech experience.

      Hughs had provided them with a full spread. Professional cameras with lights and infrared, thermal imaging cameras, sound equipment, digital recorders, environmental sensing equipment, advanced EMF detectors, computers. Unfortunately none of them was particularly tech savvy. If Jesse were here he’d be having a field day.

       Caroline twisted her ring with an unavoidable frown. Jesse had been responsible for locating this place. The owner of the strip mall was anxious to find a tenant and didn’t want to bother with all the equipment the previous lessees had left behind when they abandoned their failed business. Caroline mortgaged her mother’s house to cover the lease, figuring they could sell off kitchen equipment to cover their own expenses. She provided the cash. Jesse made it all happen. Of course at this point nothing would be happening without support from Donald.

     Upon returning from Dixon not much was accomplished at first, mostly just trying to figure out what to do next. How to move forward. For a while the whole ghost hunting thing took a back seat to life. They met a few times but it wasn’t until about a week ago that things really began happening again. They had turned a corner, or maybe they’d become tired of inactivity. At any rate they were full steam ahead now.

       “All right what’s next?” Roger walked into the back room and glanced around. “Anything else?”

     Caroline had busied herself organizing power cables. “Well, Kyle’s gonna need help setting up the darkroom and there’s still some leftover junk to clear out. We also have to build some furniture and set up a few computers and get all of the equipment wired.”

       “Do we have any leads on a new tech person?”

     Roger asked the question that all of them avoided. It’s not that they didn’t talk about Jesse but how do you find a replacement for your close friend and partner?

       “A few days ago I talked to some of Jesse’s friends from college and had them put the word out. This morning we got a message on the phone from someone named Lena.”

       “Darlene Allison Ashcroft,” Joyce said. “I did a little research on-line. Couldn’t find out much except that she lives outside of Phoenix. In her message she went on about her awesome technical abilities.”

       “I wonder if she’s cute,” Stewart mused.

       Kyle shook his head. “Nah. She’s probably a big nerd and spends all her time reading computer manuals. I knew this girl in school—”

       “You know,” Joyce interrupted, “you shouldn’t judge everyone based on one person you knew in school.”

       “Put it this way: how many hot women have you met that are really into tech shit?”

    Caroline sighed. “Way to enforce lame stereotypes. You know, a person’s appearance doesn’t define their interests.”

       “That’s why so many supermodels have PhD’s.”

       “I wouldn’t mind it if she’s nerdy,” Stewart said with a twitch of his moustache.

       “I would,” Kyle sniffed. “She’d probably be all shy and quiet and drab. I need a woman with a little fire.”

      His eyes unwittingly glanced toward Joyce for a brief second, enough time for Caroline to confirm her suspicion that sparks were beginning to fly between Kyle and Joyce. Not a bad thing, but they would certainly make an interesting couple.

       Caroline tried to redirect. “All right come on guys, let’s finish up, huh? Once this place is functional we can plan an investigation in Flagstaff. Our first new gig. Won’t that be exiting?”

       The ensuing grumbles and gripes were met with a steely glare.

       “I’m sure I could get Donald to cut back on your per diems.”

     That had a better response. The grumbles continued for a few seconds but they were accompanied by actual movement. Threaten their taco supply and they sure get serious.

       For the next couple of hours they managed to get quite a bit done. Everything relating to the former pizza parlor finally made its way to the curb or the recycling bin. Roger proved to be very good at assembling particle board furniture and between them Kyle and Stewart managed to finish up the darkroom. Meanwhile Caroline did a deep cleaning and Joyce set up a makeshift “office” behind the old ice cream counter in the front of the store. This included a computer, filing cabinets, office supplies, and a proper home for the phone.

       After a day of hard work Caroline did step out and pick up some pizza, on her own dime. This operation meant a lot to her. For a while there N.I. seemed like a lost cause, then they came roaring back. Well maybe not roaring. Anyway they came back. And with evening growing old, as they sat in the red vinyl booths enjoying a hard-earned slice, things definitely seemed to be moving along.

      After eating and sending still more pizza boxes to the recycling pile out back Caroline decided to call it a day. No need to explain how well that suggestion went over.

       “Seriously?” Kyle grinned. “No more cleaning?”

     “Nope.” Caroline clapped her hands together. “Everyone did real good. Tomorrow we can start working on a game plan for the investigation in Flagstaff. It may take a few days to figure out all the equipment but that will give us time to get better organized.”

       She felt like a proud mother watching her unruly kids behave for a change. Unfortunately all good things come to an end. Just as they were getting ready to prepare to leave for the day Roger froze like a statue and focused on the front entrance. Everyone else seemed to notice, pausing to watch as the resident psychic vented a thought.

       “Someone is coming.”

       And that’s exactly what happened.

Sample chapters coming soon!

             ...And Betty Makes Three

     Today was a big day for Kat Prescott. Well, big being a relative term of course. Three days had passed since Nightshade Investigations conducted their examination of her haunted house. They were trying to decipher things that had plagued her ever since she moved in here. Noises, shadows, deep-set feelings of unrest.

     Yes, it was a “ghost”. The team pretty much confirmed that. Kat always suspected as much but her pragmatic scientific nature made such concepts difficult to swallow. What is a ghost anyway? Why isn’t there a wealth of hard-core conclusive evidence on the subject, especially if it happens all the time? Anyway never mind that. To put it bluntly the investigation made her confront possibilities she had formerly dismissed. Unfortunately the episode ended with an anticlimax.

     She still had her unseen roommate so the band of off-beat characters comprising NI didn’t change that. It seemed like the team’s main goal was to gather intriguing footage for a TV show—well that’s their thing of course. And it’s not like she expected them to just show up and solve everything immediately. They were all engaged, helpful and genuinely concerned, which was way better than dealing with this stuff all alone.

     However, when all was said and done nothing much changed. Same ghost, different day. According to Joyce, the team’s researcher, Beatrice Kensington died in this house years ago when she had a stroke and fell on the kitchen floor. Apparently she either couldn’t or didn’t want to “move on”. Some part of her remained here to languish, to walk the halls and linger in the master bedroom. Despite being pragmatic Kat couldn’t help feeling disturbed. Just thinking about the weird situation distracted her at work and made coming home from her job at the rock trinket store less appealing.

     Once at home she tried to focus on other things. But there would be that one thump. Or moan. Or clatter of footsteps. She refused to go into her kitchen at night, regardless of how many lights were turned on. Kat didn’t want to make Betty leave but sometimes sharing such a modest space with the unpredictable echoes of a dead person left her a little stressed.

     Apropos of all that. she was about to receive a visit from Nightshade’s resident psychic, Roger. Who, as it turns out, she happened to have a thing for. It’s not like she expected that or planned it. After all, Kat spent more time thinking about rocks than romance. But something about Roger intrigued her; maybe his psychic abilities or that aloof exterior that hid a string of secret vulnerabilities.

     It all started with his initial visit last week. Her friend Pete (the vampire) pointed Roger this way and told him about her ghostly dilemma. When the psychic dropped by Kat’s house he initially came across as kind of stiff and distant. She figured it had to do with being a psychic, unaware as she was at the time of his strict upbringing. Before long though she could sense deeper things at work. Things kept firmly in check by his rigid self-control.

     For one his concern over her situation felt genuine, not merely a polite formality. Also she could tell that his stony veneer disguised inner turmoil, pain and confusion. Aspects of his psyche that he wanted to hide from the world; or maybe he wanted to hide the struggle itself.

     At any rate it didn’t stop him from conducting his business in a very business-like manner. He quickly assessed the scene, confirmed that Kat wasn’t necessarily crazy, then vowed to bring his team over for a full investigation. The whole time he tried to remain professionally detached. Tried to act like he wasn’t moved at all by Kat’s predicament.

     Kat offered him coffee and bakery.

     He declined politely. Professionally.

     When she pressed the issue he perceived her fear and tried to be reassuring. The effort came off as somewhat sterile but the more he tried to act indifferent the more Kat noticed cracks in his façade. Tiny ones granted, maybe imperceptible to other people. She could sense his compassion, kept reigned-in by that overbearing self-control. For some reason it struck a cord inside her. Intrigued her.

     During the subsequent experience with Nightshade Investigations his struggle for aloofness almost seemed to grow more intense, as if he had to act stoic in front of his peers.

     “Poor thing,” she murmured. “Keeping everything all bottled up inside. Daddy would be so proud.”

     Or maybe not. Roger eventually let slip the fact that he’d been disowned by his affluent authoritarian father, not just for making a career out of being a psychic but for refusing to seek a professional cure. (Like such a thing actually existed.) Basically he didn’t have a family outside of his little ghost-hunting brigade. Even his siblings had turned their backs.

     “So terrible. So unfair.”

     It’s not like Kat stayed in touch with her parents and older brother as much as she should, but at least she knew they would always welcome her with open arms. What would it feel like to be excommunicated by your own flesh and blood?

    These were all very fine, logical, empirical reasons for Kat to find Roger appealing but the reality was her unexpected attraction went much deeper, into places she didn’t fully understand. Kat hadn’t dated anyone in years, not since she lived in Illinois. So far her sporadic romantic ventures were a mixed bag, which might explain why she spent so much time with geology books and rocks.

     Wait—was she actually considering dating Roger? She sat up in her easy chair and felt her cheeks get warm. Well after all, wasn’t that the logical conclusion to her train of thought?

     “Hm…”

     Her brain turned over the notion a few times. Yes, she found Roger’s offbeat personality appealing. Yes, she also found him physically attractive. (Dour maybe but with possibilities.) All very logical. Very sensible—stuff she could wrap her pragmatic mind around. But there was something she couldn’t quantify. Something inexplicable.

     “You’re smitten,” she murmured.

     Sure, possibly. Whatever that even means. She’d taken notice of the fact that he lacked a wedding band, although she refrained from asking about possible girlfriends. How does one go about that anyway? This was alien territory for Kat. Something out of left field.

     And, lest she forget, he was on his way over.

     Right, which meant maybe she should get ready for him. Meaning? Well, she didn’t want him to see her looking all slobbish, flopped into her easy chair in a pair of old pajamas. A little sprucing up and a change of clothes wouldn’t hurt. Maybe she could even put on a bit of makeup? Maybe? It had been a while.

     “Hm…”

     First she would actually have to locate her makeup. It was all stuffed into a small black bag that she hadn’t seen in a while, probably not since moving here. Maybe in the closet? Uh-oh. That could pose a problem. Kat, with a little help from Pete, had moved her bedroom across the hall in order to give Betty some space. But most of her clothes and accouterments and such were still awaiting relocation, which meant she would have to venture into the other room.

     “After all it is your house.”

     Also, mid-day sunlight streamed through all the windows, making her anxiety much less extreme than it would be at night. And besides, now that she thought about it she really did want some makeup. Even if just to look spruced up, to soften any rough edges.

     With a groan she pushed herself up from the easy chair, yawned and stretched. She had already taken a shower. (So why was she still wearing pajamas?) Roger would be here in about an hour. Plenty of time to get ready. Then again Kat hadn’t done this in a while. Yes, in theory this would be a business meeting. Roger’s purpose was to follow up on his team’s investigation. But that didn’t mean Kat couldn’t sow a few romantic seeds along the way.

     To that end she crept down the hall trying to think of what to wear, how far to take her preening. Things Kat usually spent very little time pondering. She passed the left-side bedroom—her new room—and advanced slowly to the one on the right. The scene of her most troubling “incident” and a hotspot for the team.

     “Hey, hello,” she called softly as she pushed the door open. “I’m coming in, Betty. Just need to get a few things out of the closet. Won’t be a minute.”

     Of course Betty might not even be in the room right now. According to Roger she wasn’t stuck in one place. Besides which she actually died in the kitchen. (Which made getting a cold drink in the middle of the night an unnerving proposition.)

     As she entered the bedroom her senses were on high alert, eyes darting from side to side. A large open spot in the middle of the room near the far wall marked her bed’s former location. Rocks were still in abundance though. She’d been debating whether or not to empty the room completely. After all Betty might not mind a few homey touches, if she could even contemplate such things. Roger seemed skeptical at best.

     “It’s a nice day today,” Kat said. “Kind of hot but nice.”

     She talked mainly to calm her nerves but a part of her wanted to reach out, to form some kind of bond. Betty went through a horrible tragedy. She wasn’t a monster, just a lost and lonely soul. Well obviously it was the soul part that got her. Call Kat a chicken but the whole concept of disembodied spiritual residues was unsettling at best. At first her scientific skepticism had prevented her from buying into the whole concept. It didn’t fit with her education and upbringing. Now she found it difficult to scoff. In light of her string of bizarre experiences there were few other explanations. Insanity maybe, not much else.

     “I’m hoping I can find my makeup bag.”

     She felt a shudder move through her but wrote it off as nerves. Just the same it would be better not to dawdle. She hurried to the closet on the left side and peered inside. The floor was lined mostly with bags and boxes of rocks. Still plenty of clothing remained, mostly stuff she didn’t wear much, like her small group of dresses. Apropos of which…

     “Should I wear a dress?”

     Hm. Maybe not. Kat didn’t mind getting dolled up occasionally but in service of an actual occasion. Like her last dress-up, for that awards banquet honoring some of her colleagues. She actually wore a formal gown for that. (Which garnered unwanted advances from a much older drunken professor; not a pleasant memory.) This didn’t seem like a dress occasion though. Anyway Roger was a psychic so he would probably see through the façade. Better keep it simple. Something nice but not too nice. Snazzy but not too snazzy. Kat but not too Kat.

     It took a couple of minutes to decide—strange because Kat really wasn’t the fussy, indecisive type. She eventually decided not to stray too far from her normal guise. Which meant jeans and a top. But she found a nice short-sleeved blouse she’d forgotten about, made of chartreuse rayon with a few tasteful ruffles around the neck. Also, after some bumbling and fumbling she located her cosmetics bag.

     “There you are. I wonder how old this stuff is.”

     Another shudder made her turn from the closet and glance around. Again she apprehensively wrote it off as nerves. Or imagination. Power of suggestion—a self-fulfilling prophecy. All cogent, reliable explanations. Very scientific. But still…

     Better move on, change elsewhere. She took her quarry to the bathroom, pausing briefly to glance back on her way out of the room. Was that a shimmer? A breath of movement?

     Just nerves.

    Without deliberating further she hurried to the bathroom and changed into her chosen outfit. Then she dumped the cosmetic bag’s contents onto the little hutch above the toilet. The plastic containers clattered noisily into a messy heap. Among the quarry were several tubes of lipstick, as well as eyeliner, blush, eye shadow, foundation. This could get complicated.

     “One step at a time Kat. This isn’t rocket science.”

     Easy for her logical side to say. For some women putting on makeup could approach art. And Kat was definitely not an artist. Better keep it nice and simple, lest she wind up looking ridiculous. (Not that she wouldn’t anyway.) She once tried to apply a too-light-for-Kat foundation and wound up looking like a clown. Don’t want that.

     “Lipstick should be safe. Maybe some eye shadow.”

     A little perhaps. Don’t want to wind up with two black eyes. How would Roger react to that? Clown face foundation and black eyes. Also better stick to a subtle shade of lipstick, nothing too bright and flashy. No slutty lips.

     “Clown-face with black eyes and slutty lips.” She shuddered and laughed at the same time. “What a horror show that would be.”

     Trembling fingers nervously sorted through the plastic vials and selected an innocuous looking pale pink. When did she buy it? She couldn’t even remember. Five years ago? Ten? Had it really been that long?

     “Alright Pink Mist, let’s give you a shot.”

     The application didn’t go as bad as planned and the end result didn’t look half bad. Next came an equally inoffensive light blue eyeshadow and a quick dusting of blush. Then Kat ran a brush through her hair to make it look less disheveled and she stood back from the oval mirror above her dresser to assess the end result.

     “Well, I don’t think you’ll scare anyone.”

     Deciding that any more fussing might result in disaster Kat accepted her clumsy efforts as sufficient and moved on. Anyway too much preening would send off alarm bells and she didn’t want to come on too strong until she gauged Roger’s interest. He seemed to like Kat okay and his eyes sometimes locked on hers but any reciprocal affection could simply be a product of her imagination.

     Still, it doesn’t hurt to grease the wheels a little. On that note she headed back toward the kitchen to prepare a few refreshments. Nothing too elaborate, just some tea and a few snacks. Simple hospitality, which by the way isn’t an automatic indicator of romantic intentions. As she left her bathroom a pair of mewling furballs raced across the hallway, nearly making Kat trip and provoking a mournful lament.

     “Why oh why must there be so many cats!!”

     Her dismay had barely been voiced when two more walking allergen factories skittered behind the first two. Sarah would definitely owe Kat if she ever made it back from her extended tour of duty. Which she hopefully would with everything intact.

     Suddenly Kat had a realization as she paused by the door to Betty’s room. It had taken a moment to sink in: the cats were running from something. Fleeing the scene. Kat peeked in the doorway.

     “Betty? Are you there? It’s me, Kat. Your, um, roommate.”

     She lingered for a few seconds to await a response, feeling more than a little foolish. The Kat of six months ago would think she was nuts.

     “We’ll be having a visitor shortly. The tall psychic who was here a couple of days ago. Maybe you would like to try communicating with him. Maybe he can help you…”

     Wait, was that likely? Better not make any promises.

     “Anyway we’ll try not to disturb you.” She paused, bit her lip. “I kind of have a thing for this guy so, you know, if you could avoid totally freaking us out. Although I’m sure it’s not on purpose, you know, when you freak me out. Maybe I freak you out. In that case I’m sorry, I don’t have much experience with…well, ghosts.”

     Did Betty even know she was a ghost? If so would she object to the terminology? Is there a P.C. alternative? Kat smirked.

     “Sorry Betty. I tend to flake out sometimes.”

     Once again Kat strained her ears for a response. She could feel a tension in the air that might be anxiety or it might not. Why is it that weird things only seemed to happen at unexpected times? Was it like Roger suggested—that Betty might slip in and out of alternate dimensions without knowing it? It could be like sleep-walking, wandering around a dreamy labyrinth of shadows.

     “I guess I’ll be in the kitchen.”

     With a smirk, hands still trembling slightly, she pulled the bedroom door closed and headed to the end of the hall. Her eyes tried to avoid the spot on the floor, which didn’t really work since the instant she thought about it her eyes wandered there. Once that happened she couldn’t help wondering what it must have been like for Betty at the end, helpless and alone, calling out for help that never came. The very notion filled Kat with an acute sense of fear and discomfort.

     For a few seconds her gaze lingered, then she forced herself to shift focus. Dwelling on the past wouldn’t help. Although it did relax some of her fear concerning her unseen companion.

     With one eye on the kitchen clock, Kat strode over to the pantry, then the fridge to retrieve a few edibles which she hurriedly arranged on the counter. Adding to her desperately anemic social graces Kat was not very good at entertaining. She kept very little food around for such an occasion and she lacked any knowledge of simple etiquette. Should she invite Roger to eat? When she did that on his initial visit he politely turned her down, remained aloof. Then again they had only just met.

     “It doesn’t hurt to offer.”

     Sure, even if he declined. She could make the gesture.

     “Maybe I should wait until I ask to get stuff out.”

     Or maybe a careful setup.

     “Yes. I was just about to have my morning tea. Would you care to join me? No, that just sounds stupid.”

     He’s your guest. It’s a long drive.

     “Yes, yes. And he’s doing me a favor. I’m thankful for his time and help. He doesn’t want money. Refreshments are a form of reciprocity. No need to orchestrate a guilt trip. If he’s not hungry maybe he’d like something for the drive home?”

     While Kat debated the issue she filled the kettle and moved her quarry from the counter to the kitchen table. In addition to a few chocolate biscotti (still relatively fresh) and some imported butter cookies she had also found a can of mixed nuts in the back of the pantry with a few months left on the expiration date. Amazingly the nuts came from a grocery store all the way back in Illinois.

     “Might as well use them. They’re not getting any younger. Then again I’m not either.”

     Suddenly a rap on the front door ended her preparations.

     “Oh…oh…well, I guess this is it.”

     Now her anxiety took on a new dimension. She checked the table, smoothed her blouse, straightened her ponytail, then at the last second retrieved a pack of breath mints from the drawer beside the sink and popped one into her mouth. Couldn’t hurt. If Kat needed any confirmation of her feelings for Roger, the nervous thump in her chest did the job nicely.

     “Keep those thoughts in check. Remember he’s a psychic.”

     Right, don’t want to give herself up too quickly. As another rap sounded she took a deep breath and strode down the hall, ignoring the subtle chill that accompanied her. Before opening the door she tried to relax, gather her thoughts.

     “Be gracious but not too gracious. Relaxed but not too relaxed. Wait, should I flirt? Do I even know how?? Never mind that—be logical!”

     Yes, be logical. Scientific. With a calming breath she placed her hand on the knob, opened the door. Roger stood outside looking very firm and grim. Yes, very Roger. When their eyes met though, a shadowy smile crossed his lips.

     “Hello Kaitlin,” he said.

     “Oh, um.” Her cheeks became warm, not intentionally. “You can call me Kat if you want. I don’t mind.”

     Roger didn’t look so certain. “If you’d prefer.”

     “Well, it’s up to you of course. Kaitlin just sounds so formal.”

     “After all this is business.”

     “Yes of course. Please, come in. It’s too warm outside.”

     Business. Yes, of course. Kat thought of the snacks on the table and her makeup with a wince. Then she realized her mind was starting to wander and tried to lock it down. Meanwhile Roger stepped into the living room and she closed the door behind him. He looked very handsome today, in a pair of gray slacks, matching jacket and white shirt. His brown hair, while combed, showed signs of neglect and his dark eyes were underlined by faint shadows that suggested insufficient sleep.

     “How have things been since our investigation?” he asked, glancing around very business-like.

     “The same,” Kat said. “Pretty much.”

     “Any new encounters?”

     “A couple, but I’m staying in the other bedroom now.”

     Roger nodded. “You gave Betty her space.”

     “Well, now we can each have our own space.”

     “Of course.”

     “Until we cross paths. Can you…can you sense her?”

     “Only her residue, nothing immediate.” He smirked, a bit ruefully. “I may not be the best person to sort out your situation.”

     “Oh, but I appreciate any help I can get.”

     “I still intend to find a spirit medium. Locating one isn’t easy since they don’t always advertise. Genuine ones.”

     “Of course, I understand.”

     “Maybe I should check out the spot. In the kitchen.”

     “What? Oh, of course.”

     Before they could relocate from the living room their gazes met and briefly became entangled. Roger seem to examine her for a moment through squinted eyes.

     “Something is different about you.”

     “Different?” Kat tried to play stupid.

     “Are you wearing makeup?”

     “Um…yes. A little.” Kat’s heart began beating faster. Was he aware of the reason? In her mind she tried to hide her affection, stay neutral, which didn’t exactly work. Her uneven expression surely gave her away. “Do…do you like it?”

     What a question! How could she ask it?!

     He allowed a small smile, nodded. “You look very nice.”

     Not it looks very nice. You look very nice. His compliment was personal. An expression of mutual affection? A product of Kat’s rabid imagination? Should she give a fictitious reason for the makeup, deflect suspicion? No…he would know the truth. He might know it anyway. For all she knew he could probably sense every thought going through her mind right now. Which would reframe all their interactions.

     “Thanks,” she smiled awkwardly. “Sometimes I like to experiment.” (Really?) “I guess we should, um, you know, we should check out the kitchen.”

     Why did Kat feel like a stammering teen? Fortunately Roger didn’t seem to mind. In fact his expression relaxed and his stiff posture eased up. The dark vibe surrounding him also diminished. As he lowered his head in a polite nod, Kat started up the hall, trying to predict how he would react to her clumsy attempts at hospitality.

     When they entered the kitchen his pace slowed and his gaze focused on the floor beside the counter. He didn’t go into any kind of trance but wore a strained expression, as though trying to fend off unpleasant thoughts. No doubt Betty’s tragic death weighed heavily on him.

     Kat, despite logical considerations to the contrary, stood beside him and placed her right hand on his forearm. To her surprise he didn’t recoil or even flinch, but turned to her with a weary gaze.

     “Can you see her?” Kat asked.

     Roger shook his head. “Afterimages. I don’t want to completely release myself to delve any deeper.”

     “So you can control…what you experience.”

     “Partly. A good deal of my perception comes from a mental state between the conscious and unconscious mind. Most of the time I’m able to restrict how much I experience it. At least I was…”

     “It sounds like a dream state.”

     “Kind of. But different. It’s like a schism and I slip through it briefly to experience echoes of past events that vary in intensity”

     “Sometimes you can’t control it though?”

     “As I’ve gotten older it’s become easier to slip. Our last trip seems to have intensified things too. I think my experience in Dixon’s hotel may have enhanced the schism.”

     “That must get difficult to live with.”

     “It can. Often. But I am what I am. I can’t change that. My father wanted me to…”

     “To change yourself,” she murmured.

     Mention of his father brought a grim distance to Roger’s expression. Amazingly Kat still had her hand on his arm; he hadn’t pulled away. His body felt strangely chilled but a quiet warmth was submerged in his dark eyes, something Kat found very appealing. If only she could help him in some way. Provide some external warmth—

     She did not just think that. Roger didn’t react outwardly to her musings, which could be deliberate. Maybe he wanted to stay aloof, or felt conflicted or outright not interested in Kat. His intentions might be wholly practical; besides, Kat knew almost nothing about him other than the fact that he had heightened perceptions that resulted in his family disowning him. (The poor thing.) He wore no band but might be in a relationship. Best not to get carried away.

     “My father had our lives planned out for us,” he sighed. “Any deviation was seen as a betrayal.”

     “Even though you couldn’t help it.”

     “He never understood that. And I resisted his efforts to fix me.”

     Kat nodded. “You had to follow your own path.”

     “Which hasn’t been easy. But I had no other choice.”

     “Your, um…girlfriend must worry about you.”

     The alarming question slipped out, past her defenses, causing Kat to cringe as Roger eyed her with a probing, some would say suspicious look. He knew she was fishing for info, that she was interested in him. He had to. In confused embarrassment she pulled away from his arm, causing him to briefly glance down where her hand had been.

     “Actually, I haven’t dated in quite a long time,” he said in a gentle tone. Was that a hint of regret?

     “Me either,” Kat admitted with a sheepish smirk.

     “To be honest a lot of women are wary of my psychic abilities.”

     “Oh?”

     “They probably think it gives me an advantage or lets me see into their secret thoughts. Actually until recently I didn’t even have such an ability. Mostly my senses picked up on past events, not people’s thoughts. Only since Dixon…” His voice dropped and his expression darkened.

     Kat shrugged. “All my secret thoughts are about rocks. Nothing inappropriate of course.” Her cheeks warmed at the awkward joke. “Anyway I think your clairvoyance is intriguing.”

     Pushing Kat…you’re pushing.

     Roger softly smiled. “That’s refreshing. Thank you.”

     Why did he smile? Did he appreciate her open-mindedness or was it something more? Might he possibly like her back? Or was she just seeking confirmation to appease herself? For a moment he looked into Kat’s eyes as she nervously stroked her ponytail.

     “Oh, um, would you like some refreshments?” she asked.

     Nice distraction.

     He followed her gaze to the dining room table. “Well…”

     “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s just that you had a long drive here and you’ll have a long drive home and you’re helping me out and don’t want any money for your services and, well, I’m not especially great at entertaining which is probably obvious.”

     Babbling Kat, you’re babbling.

     “That was very nice of you,” Roger said. He wore a thin smile that seemed like an attempt to quell amusement.       “But you didn’t have to go through all that trouble for me.”

     “Oh…” Kat bit her lip.

     “Since you did though; what do you have?”

     Feeling more than slightly awkward Kat went over to the dining room table and Roger followed. She felt so unsure of herself, almost to the point of being embarrassed. Maybe she next time (would there be one) she could take an online etiquette course.

     “Well, you know, it’s just a little something. The chocolate biscotti are quite good. They go nice with tea if you want. I have the kettle ready since I was thinking of tea myself. Also the butter cookies are from Denmark I think and some mixed nuts…those are a holdover from my old home, although the date is fine. They would probably go good with some cheese, maybe a cheese platter but I hadn’t really thought of that before hand. Sorry I’m not really used to entertaining otherwise I would have bought some. I know it’s not much, kind of what I was able to scrounge up…”

     The more Kat talked the more she hated the sound of her own voice. Every word seemed sillier than the last. Before she could embarrass herself anymore, Roger gently placed a hand on her shoulder, causing a pulse of energy to rush through her.

     “It’s fine. Really.”

    His voice had a firm, measured quality that eased her anxiety, even if his touch exuded a subtle chill. For a moment Kat felt relief, then a shadow fell across her thoughts. Probably just her imagination.

     “Trust me,” he added with a soft smile. “I would do much worse.”

     Kat felt her breath catch. “Oh…”

     “At any rate it all sounds good. Do you have a small plate?”

     “Plates! How could I forget plates! And napkins!”

     Seriously, could Kat be any more inept? She hurried over to the cabinets and retrieved two plates, a pile of napkins, knives and forks. Despite an urgent twist in her stomach she brought her quarry over to the table and laid it out as Roger took a seat.

     “Would you care for something to drink?” she asked.

     “Tea would be fine,” he nodded.

     “Tea, oh yes. I have jasmine, orange pekoe, English breakfast and I think a few others.”

     “English breakfast is fine.”

     “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

     “Maybe you’re a little psychic.”

     “Ha! This brain?”

     “Don’t sell yourself short. I’m sure your brain is fine.”

     “Full of rocks maybe…”

     “Even so.”

     Moving as efficiently as possible without tripping herself up Kat turned on the kettle, readied two beige and blue flowered mugs with tea bags (jasmine for herself) and returned to the table where Roger sat watching her. Again, was that a hint of amusement?

     “Please, help yourself,” Kat insisted.

     “I’ll wait until the tea is ready.”

     “Oh, of course.”

     “Have a seat.”

     Kat pulled out the end chair, around the corner from Roger. As she sat down she once again felt a twist inside. Under the circumstances nerves or anxiety were the likely culprit.

     “You seem somewhat stressed,” Roger observed. “Are you okay?”

     Kat smirked. “Oh yeah, fine. Probably just—” She was about to say “just a little gassy” but fortunately caught herself. “Nothing, it’s nothing.”

     “Hm, I sense a little something…”

     Kat nearly gasped. “You do?”

    “It’s very indistinct. Just out of reach.” He sighed. “I’m sorry I came here to help you but I’m proving quite useless.”

     “Oh I wouldn’t say that. I’m just glad you came.” Kat felt her face heat up and quickly added “to help.” His admission that he “felt” something added another layer of anxiety. What did he sense? He seemed uncertain so maybe he couldn’t read her interest. Wait, was that a good thing or a bad thing? Was it better if he knew? Then if he reciprocated he could act accordingly. Or he might shut down.

     You’re projecting.

     Maybe so.

     And also waffling.

     “What do you think…you’re sensing?” she asked.

     “It’s a vague shadow in my thoughts,” he said while squinting his eyes. “Almost like something is trying to reveal itself.”

     “Nothing more specific though.”

     “Not yet. If…when I find a spirit medium we can return together and perhaps be more effective.”

     The twisting inside Kat became a tightness. “Yes, um, so what is the difference between you and a medium?”

     “Our senses are differently attuned. I can pick up things embedded in the environment, or more immediate thoughts. A medium can penetrate deeper into other layers of reality. I suppose we all fall under the broader category of psychic but we each experience things differently. As far as hauntings go, a good spirit medium would be able to see ghosts all the time whereas I see them as much as anyone else. They should also be able to communicate with any conscious or semi-conscious entities.”

     “I see. But as far as divining what people are thinking…”

     “It’s a developing ability that requires a bit of focus.”

     “So you don’t just constantly sense everyone’s thoughts.”

     “I’m aware of them on some level but I tune them out rather than be overwhelmed so they become more like background noise. I suppose over time that could all change.”

     Kat took a deep breath. “Can you…sense feelings and emotions?”

     “Again, to an extent.”

     He briefly met her gaze and Kat wondered if his words had a deeper meaning, or maybe they were meant to placate her. He might possibly sense things but not get the full gist. Kat wanted to feel him out but she didn’t want to expose herself either. After a few seconds she blinked and glanced away as a slight smile crossed his lips.

     “I guess I understand.” She didn’t fully, but wanted to break the silence. Also a subject change seemed appropriate. “So, um, how did you happen to fall in with your team?”

     “Actually it was all a fluke. When I first…left home my prospects were dim. Working as a psychic is not lucrative as it turns out.”

     “And you gave up your inheritance.”

     “For better or worse. I could have been well off, but I’d be sitting behind a desk in an L.A. high rise doing my father’s bidding right now. My abilities weren’t just going to stop, which would make focusing on actuary reports…well, difficult. Anyway I’ve always felt networking is important, which of course is how I met Pete. And you.”

     “Networking is a good thing.” (For multiple reasons of course.)

     “Yes. Well I often met with a few cohorts at U.P. Marcia Jenkins in particular had provided quite a few leads for me over the years. One day I stopped by to consult with her and Cary happened to be there looking for recruits. At that point it was just her and Joyce and Jesse.”

     When Roger mentioned the name Jesse his face went dark and his gaze receded to a depth beyond Kat’s comprehension. In a way that hollow, frozen look frightened her but she held her ground.

     “Is he…” she began softly. “The one Lena replaced?”

     Roger dropped his chin with a pained exhale.  “I’ve been having nightmares about him. The things that happened on our last trip…they’re still difficult to process.”

      Kat wanted to reach out and offer comfort but could only soak in his melancholy from a distance. The more he talked about things the more he seemed to recede into shadows. They should talk about more pleasant things. Before Kat could think of something though, the tightness inside her became sharp and disorienting, to the point where her external reaction couldn’t be avoided. She winced, shuddered, and clenched her teeth together.

     “Are you…” Roger began, then his eyes froze and he glanced up, as though looking over Kat’s shoulder.

     She was seated with her back to the kitchen, and even as Roger’s expression deepened she felt a shudder move through her as the follicles on her arms lifted.

     “What,” she murmured, “what’s wrong?”

     Roger merely shook his head, gaze rapt.

     With an effort, and against all her apprehensions, Kat slowly rotated her head and caught, through the corner of her eye, a misty blur accompanied by a soft swirl of movement. In response her muscles seized and her saliva completely dried up.

     “B-Betty?” she hoarsely whispered.

    In her mind Kat almost thought she heard mumbling words but they were barely separable from the background noise, and might very well be her shock and anxiety taking over. Which was not an unlikely option. For what seemed like ages she sat motionless, robbed of her bodily autonomy, unable to do anything other than breathe in a shallow rasp. Images filled her mind, mostly shifting blurs that felt distinctive from her own thoughts. At length Roger spoke.

     “Betty? Are you here with us now? Can you see us? Can you hear my voice. Kaitlin doesn’t mean to frighten you. She doesn’t mind being here with you but this is her house now. You died over there by the counter. Do you remember?”

     Kat experienced a sinking sensation and the daylight seemed to dim, at least to her eyes. She felt so detached, to the point of possibly swooning.

     “I’d like to bring someone to help you,” Roger said. “To connect with you.”

     Now Kat smelled something electrical and her ears faintly popped.

     “We want you to have peace.”

     The sensations Kat felt were unlike anything she’d experienced up to this point. They were more physical and intense. Also the images in her mind seemed to take her to another place. Just as everything reached peak intensity it suddenly stopped. Like a wave receding the unhinged feelings gradually lessened, leaving a shivering residue behind.

     Still Kat remained frozen for several seconds as the foreign thoughts flared up and faded. She had been there—in some form Betty had been there. Then she departed, or slipped through a portal or whatever. Did she see Kat and Roger? Did she hear Roger’s words? Before any of these questions could be voiced, a shrill whistling sound came from the kettle, startling Kat out of her stupor. Roger leaned forward, dark eyes set on Kat, lips curled into a soft smile.

     “I think the tea is ready…”

               Scent of a Human

     Being a vampire isn’t easy. Oh it has its perks—lots of them actually. (And not the ones that non-vampiric people would expect.) But fitting in can be quite challenging.

     Not that Pete Dobrowski necessarily wanted to fit in. He had no problem being the odd one in a crowd. Lots of people found his lifestyle gross or disturbing or even sacrilegious; others showed polite interest, like Cary Richards. Every now and again someone was genuinely intrigued. The thing is, vampires don’t have any legal protections against discrimination in “normal” society.

     There are no laws protecting vampires.

     No government lobbyists or representatives.

     No census category.

     Okay, so maybe that last one isn’t too important. After all, vampires tend to like their privacy. But still, most people were appalled to hear that Pete drank the blood of animals he slaughtered with his own hands. It’s not like he was out robbing convenient stores or shanking little old ladies or selling crystal meth to kids. Plenty of people kill and dress animals—hunters, butchers, hobbyists. Pete just happened to focus on the luscious blood. Raw meat is fine too but the blood is where it’s at.

     Pete grinned to himself, like he often did.

     “Blood is life.”

     Yes, the very pulse of life. Best consumed when fresh and still infused with that life force. And, you know, the larger the animal the more the blood. But Pete was limited as to what he could dissect in his little house. Goats were a decent middle ground—larger than a rodent but smaller than a calf. Of course something bigger would be great.

     “Oh, to drain a bison,” he mused.

     Imagine the feast!

     Anyway, apropos of all that Pete had just left his favorite butcher with a bag of meat, consisting of ground chuck (breakfast) and pork cutlets (dinner). And yes, he did eat some vegetables (except garlic—didn’t like the taste) and he fully understood the dangers of consuming raw meat.

     The thing is, buying meat from a store is the real risk…all that travel from source to shelf, even in the best circumstances. Quite different from freshly slaughtered flesh. But Pete got tired of goat meat. Maybe other vampires were less picky; some probably only drank blood, who knows? Pete had yet to meet another of his kind. He knew they were out there, they just weren’t living in his neighborhood.

     Which clarifies his initial musing. It can get lonely being the odd one out; the only person with no peers. Naturally he didn’t advertise his vampirism (for fear of spooking the normals), however plenty of people could tell that he was special. Different somehow. Maybe in a way that they can’t put their finger on. Then he would smile, politely say “Good morning sir or ma’am”, and his sharpened canine teeth erased any doubt. (Unless he remembered to wear his caps.)

     Some people reacted with confusion or amusement, some with mild revulsion. Most just walked on, wondering what the hell was up with this strange young man. Okay, so maybe he found all of that humorous. It’s not like Pete craved social companionship. Acceptance though, well that might not be such a bad thing. Not an impossible outcome, just rare. For instance: the folks at his favorite meat market were quite understanding (of course—they liked the business!) And his friend Kat Prescott didn’t seem phased by much (except the ghost living in her house!)

     Nightshade Investigations was a mixed bag. Some of the team were doubtful, some were curious, but none of them treated Pete with open scorn or derision. In fact they seemed to be quite proud of their collective weirdness and diversity.

     “My kind of peeps.”

     Sure, Joyce was a skeptic and she liked to be sarcastic. And Roger seemed dubious (strange coming from a professional psychic, right?) But none of them acted intentionally cruel. In fact Joyce’s snarky, dismissive wise cracks were kind of fun. She made him laugh. The same couldn’t be said of most other antagonists.

     As he strolled along with his bag of meat, heading for home, Pete let his mind wander to other days, back when he was young and inexperienced and things were more difficult. Normally he walked since he didn’t own a car but sometimes he got a ride from Kat or took the bus. Anyway walking is good—it allows time to think and even meditate. On this particular evening some clouds had moved in to mask the setting sun in a gray dusk. Yes, nice. Soothing for the eyes and mind.

     Soon it would be night. Even better.

     “Mmm…night.”

     Pete didn’t melt in the daylight, as per inaccurate vampire lore but he definitely preferred night. It’s much better for lurking, cooler, more mysterious, and much easier on the eyes. Which refers back to his quiet ruminations on this cloudy, dusky, quite agreeable walk home.

     Being a vampire wasn’t so much a choice as a realization that took shape during adolescence. He had always stood out in a crowd, but at some point he realized that some things about himself that he accepted as normal were anything but. The most obvious had to do with his eyesight. A little known fact: Pete could see in pitch dark. While other people are stumbling around he can easily navigate the nothingness. His pupils sometimes dilate in broad daylight and an ophthalmologist once told him that he must have “super human rods”. He could adapt to night vision in a split second and his turbo rods allowed him to see his surroundings in perfect detail with just a lumen or two of ambient light.

     Freaky, huh? Turns out that was a minor biological adaptation.

     Some landmark moments: at age nine Pete drank blood for the first time. His own. It happened after falling off his bike and receiving a bad laceration. Following that he became “curious”. At age twelve he dissected his first animal—a frog in biology class. Fascinating! Before long he took the next step, which involved dissecting an animal and drinking its blood. Squirrel to be specific. Around the same time his maturing brain began putting certain things together.

     No, Pete couldn’t change into a bat. He wasn’t bitten by a million year-old damned soul. But he genuinely craved blood and enjoyed prowling at night. And something else. Something truly unique.

     It’s hard to pinpoint the moment of realization, probably somewhere around age fifteen. He’d known for a while though. At first he thought everyone could smell blood. Spoiler alert: they can’t! Anyway not the way Pete can. He had the ability to discern small amounts even from a distance. Several experiments confirmed this. And something else. He could also tell the difference between dried and fresh blood.

     “Old blood,” he darkly nodded. “New blood.”

     Years of experimentation and experience added a final twist, one that even Pete found bewildering. He could detect the presence of blood from bygone years. Naturally all these trials distanced him from his more “normal”childhood peers. He spent most of his free time alone in the basement with dead animals (much to his parents’ chagrin and dismay) which does not form a healthy foundation for social interactions. Most kids preferred to play sports or video games or such.

     “Their loss!”

     Still, it’s not like he had trouble getting along with people. He just didn’t fit in. Maybe he should’ve started a vampire club in high school. Ha! Then again nobody knew about his vampire status back then, not even his parents, who thought dissecting animals was a way of preparing for medical school! Naturally they were super confused when he decided to become an engineer, although they never learned the truth.

     Speaking of mom and dad, a.k.a. Jen and Paul, one of the biggest turning points in his young life came when they died unexpectedly and Pete traded their spacious North Flagstaff house for something more cozy and secluded. After that his vampiric life entered its most profound phase. He enlisted an acquaintance in college—a dental student—to help file down his canines. (Danny Bolin…he died too.) Then, for a while, Pete used his sharpened teeth to puncture the neck arteries of sedated animals, to drink their fresh blood in the most visceral moment.

     A shiver went through him as he thought back to those days. There’s nothing like sucking down the warm blood of a still breathing creature. But Pete wasn’t a monster. (At least he didn’t think so.) Ultimately he felt it more humane to quickly and painlessly take the animal’s life, then drain the blood and store it. That way he could portion it out.

     People might think that Pete was cruel or hated animals. On the contrary! He respected and revered them. In the circle of life they provided him with sustenance and energy. He despised people that tormented or mistreated animals. Jerks that beat their dogs or locked up cats in filth-ridden cages to suffer and be miserable. Psychos that derive pleasure from the infliction of pain for the hell of it. Appalling.

     “I should drink their blood.”

     Just kidding. Animal rights groups might not be mollified but Pete long ago made it a point to avoid drinking human blood—a line that he feared crossing. So how could he be sure he wasn’t indulging in the forbidden substance by accident?

     Fortunately he’d been gifted with yet another weird, hard to explain talent, one honed after years of careful trial. The scent of a human is very distinct. “Wild” animals know this. Pete could actually distinguish, by smell, the difference between animal and human blood, although that didn’t erase his cravings. Desire and curiosity were an uncomfortable constant. Maybe to be a true vampire, a pure vampire he had to take the controversial leap but thus far, and maybe to his credit, he had resisted.

     Sometimes he couldn’t help lusting. The tempting aroma found its way into his nostrils and challenged his resolve. To have a taste, a sip…but that would never be enough.

     “Good thing I don’t work for a blood bank.”

     The sentiment was half-joking. But fortunately Pete possessed plenty of self-control; otherwise he might turn into a serial killer, then he would definitely be ostracized. Of course, he would be feared too. Vampires are supposed to be feared, aren’t they?

     He grinned and shook his head.

     “If only.”

     Better to be respected.

     “Heh—if only.”

     Several reddish beams of sun slipped under the crown of misty clouds, setting their bottommost layers ablaze. Pete squinted and turned his back to the rapidly vanishing orb. Time for a little dinner, then maybe he would head out for a midnight prowl, which basically meant strolling through the ‘hood and communing with other night creatures like wolves and scorpions and (naturally) bats. Good times.

     First he needed to get this meat into the fridge. After that: pour a tall glass of silky red bliss and tuck in. As he passed the last few houses, his own small but satisfactory dwelling came into view at the end of the road.

     As with Kat’s house, Pete’s one-story bungalow had two bedrooms, a kitchen, dining room, living room and bathroom. When his parents died he sold their more opulent home and moved here, using the extra money as a supplement to his inheritance. Nice to have, since Pete worked in sporadic episodes. Turns out working as an engineer isn’t always stimulating, hence his efforts to get a teaching job at the university. Unfortunately his money stores were getting a little thin. Not a good thing.

     Maybe NI could throw a little freelance work his way. When he first connected with Roger in an on-line chat room for paranormal types a couple of weeks ago it had been with the notion of networking with similarly “unconventional” individuals. Not that he really wanted to be in a TV show. Who knows though? It could be fun.

     “Always keep an open mind.”

     As he approached his house, a man appeared in the yard next door. Not just any man: Roy. Since Pete lived at the scrubby end of a dead-end street his only immediate neighbors were Roy Shelton and a vacant lot. The elderly, gray-haired man came around from the side of his own house dressed in beige shorts and a white tank top and clutching the nozzle of a green garden hose. Roy was something known as a “Prepper”. He owned a whole arsenal of weapons to combat looters when society unraveled. Also he had an underground bunker, gas masks, plenty of hardy survival gear and about ten thousand cans of Beefaroni.

     “And people think I’m weird!”

     The cool thing is that Roy didn’t care if Pete was a vampire. For one he respected Pete’s rugged individualism in the face of social disapproval. Also, he figured a vampire might come in handy during the apocalypse. You know, to help deal with trespassers and hunt for wild game and such. Hey—it’s nice to be useful!

     “Yo Peter,” the old man called out when he saw Pete. “I’ve been looking for you. I caught a huge rat in my bunker and right away I thought of you. It’s legs are broken but otherwise it’s still alive. Fresh.”

     Roy grinned, showing off a ghastly yellowing grill. (Someone hadn’t been to their dentist in a while.) Pete appreciated the gesture though he didn’t care all that much for rat blood. Still, it’s always a good idea to humor the guy with five AK-47s in his spare bedroom.

     “How thoughtful,” Pete answered cheerfully. “Thank you.”

     “My pleasure, neighbor.”

     “That tarantula you caught for me last week was dee-licious.”

    “Hm. I still think a little Beefaroni wouldn’t hurt.”

    “Maybe one day when I’m feeling adventurous.”

    “I’ll set a few cans aside just in case.”

    A nice gesture but no. Beefaroni included processed meat; something akin to sacrilege. A million miles away from fresh. Probably not even entirely meat. But Roy, a widower, hardly ever ate anything that didn’t come out of a can. Which was kind of sad. Then again Pete drank the blood of a giant spider and would soon be the proud recipient of a half-dead rat. Not exactly the glamorous life. What a strange pair!

     “I’ll drop by with your rat as soon as I water this damn lawn. Don’t want the H.A. to send out their terror squad.”

     “No rush,” Pete said. “I’m about to have dinner.”

     “Anything good? Besides blood?”

     “I’m thinking some lovely raw pork cutlets.”

     “Pork, huh? Ran out of goat?”

     “Nope. Just lookin’ for a change of pace.”

     “Right.”

     The notion of trying something different seemed alien to Roy. He nodded blankly and turned on the hose. Most likely he was thinking about a heaping plate of his favorite canned pasta.

     “Well…” Pete held up his bag. “Better get this in the fridge.”

     “Good idea. Maybe later you’ll feel up to a game of canasta.”

     “Sure thing.”

     “Stay strong, neighbor.” Roy held up his fist. “Fight the system.”

     “I will. I’ll fight it.”

     As Pete walked away, Roy focused the hose on his patchy lawn and seemed to vanish into murky thoughts about “The System”. Probably best not to ask too many questions. Once Roy got on his soap box he could spin webs of paranoia for hours, during which time truth and conjecture were almost interchangeable. Oh well, gotta have a hobby, right?

     Anyway. Time for sustenance. While heading up his front walkway Pete was challenged by a strange notion, in reference to his previous musings: Roy did not smell very good. Judging by his pungent aroma his blood probably wouldn’t taste very good either. Pete imagined a flavor blending bourbon and Beefaroni with putrid old man sweat; hardly a very appetizing notion, even for someone used to eating rodents.

     “If you ever crave human blood too much just think of Roy and it should cure your appetite.”

     Not a bad idea. Of course, you can’t always judge the taste of a person’s blood by their external scent. How could he know that if he never drank human blood? By smell of course. Smell and taste are intimately linked. And Pete had plenty of past opportunities to smell someone’s physical musk as well as that of their blood, usually after some kind of injury. Example: Lena from Nightshade Investigations. She smelled like a young woman soaked in cotton candy bubble bath. Nice but not necessarily appetizing. Her blood on the other hand…

     Pete’s heart skipped a beat as he tried to keep his lust in check. Lena’s blood had smelled rich and appealing, so much so that he felt dismayed by her cutting habit. To waste such a quality blend seemed insane.

     He sighed and thumped up the three wood stairs leading to his front door. Sometimes being good took some effort. Thinking about Lena’s blood awakened fantasies of biting and licking. Would he be able to indefinitely deny his cravings? Would he be able to spend his whole life resisting the very nature of his being?

     “You damn well better.”

     So many people that give in to unchecked desires enter a downward spiral that can be difficult or impossible to reverse. At any rate for the time being Pete felt in control of his passion. Hopefully that would continue to be the case. As long as he didn’t have to endure much temptation it might be doable—just steer clear of any people with injuries! And be ready to think of Roy if the need arises.

     “Not now though; don’t wanna spoil dinner.”

     Spoil it? Not possible. Pete was starving and the scent of pork wafting from his grocery bag made him salivate.

     “Then after dinner maybe an encore performance of B.S.D.”

     Bram Stoker’s Dracula—probably his favorite vampire movie. Kind of corny, sure, but also nice and dark and bloody. Pete had seen it at least twenty times, maybe more. But he never got tired of it.

     “Don’t forget, Roy’s stopping by with a rat and maybe canasta.”

     Wouldn’t want to forget that! Pete opened the front door but paused before entering his darkened house, turning around as the daylight all but vanished. Plenty of trees surrounded his property, offering some welcome shelter from unwanted scrutiny; now their leafy boughs were almost silhouettes, though Pete could still see every detail. The neighborhood looked sleepy and peaceful. Dusk was almost as soothing as night.

    With a satisfied exhale he stepped into his front hall and closed the door behind him. No interior lights were used but that didn’t matter. Evening shimmers creeping past the living room blinds stained the front hall with enough luminescence to keep his cones from going to sleep. When his turbo rods finally switched on, the tiny glint of light felt blinding. Pete didn’t have to blow a lot of money on light bulbs. Darkness robbed the world of color but sometimes black and white can be refreshing.

     The night has so many personalities, so many different shades. Most people only experience a very limited appreciation. Night is the time between dusk and dawn, with the world cloaked in obscurity, often little more than a time for sleeping. Sometimes empty or filled with fear and uncertainty. Perhaps even analogous to death.

     “Such a shame. Such a waste.”

     Besides, what is death anyway? A natural course of life. Maybe a transition to something different—heaven or another dimension or another state of being. Or nothing at all. But it is what it is, a matter of reality. Just like the night.

     On the way up the main hall Pete passed by the basement door on his right. Not a lot of houses in his neighborhood had basements. The rock layers underfoot made it impractical. Naturally he desired one for a couple of reasons. First, it reminded him of his sanctuary growing up; second, it gave him a quiet, secluded, dark and mysterious vampire lair in which to find refuge from the bright, noisy outside world. The modest space had been outfitted with a medical dissection table (gotta be able to drain the blood), a chopping block, meditation sofa and refrigerator. No need to go down there today though. Well, unless he needed more blood.

     Just past the basement door on his left was the kitchen, and next to that the dining room. A few traces of residual dusky light seeped in; other than that darkness had finally asserted control.

     “About time.”

     And yes, Pete would be eating his raw pork cutlets in the dark. If Roy came over later he could always turn on the lights but until then…

     “Gotta rest those overtaxed cones.”

     On that note he took his shopping bag over to the stainless steel fridge, which sat beside a nice long counter lined above and below with wood cabinets. When he opened the fridge door no light came on—Pete had removed the bulb (more wasted electricity). He carefully stowed his raw beef on the bottom shelf, following correct food safety protocol and removed a tall pitcher filled with deep red liquid from the top shelf.

     Blood.

     He also grabbed one raw russet potato from the lower kitchen cabinet. After all, a balanced diet is essential! Lots of nutrients in blood, plenty of protein and fat in raw meat, but it’s good to get some starches and carbs too. Potatoes have a bit of everything.

     After slicing up the potato and plating it with his pork cutlets he poured himself a nice tall glass and sat down to eat. At times like this he definitely craved a bit of company. Vampire company that is. Playing canasta with Roy is all well and good but to have someone that really understood him…

     “Not likely,” he sighed.

    Oh well. Being a vampire isn’t easy. But it definitely has its perks. Then again that might all be a matter of opinion. Not everyone is into blood and raw meat.

     “Their loss.”

     Pete grinned, took a long deep sip from his glass, and made ready to enjoy his delicious feast.

Coming next : "The Van Remembers"

Shades of Night

presents

The Canyon Phantom

All text and artwork

©Copyright 2025 Daniel Smid

ISBN # 979-8-9997036-2-0

              The Second Shade

                            An Introduction

       In case you missed reading New Blood, this story is the second in a series of five novels, collectively titled Shades of Night—five separate stories bound by a group of off-beat characters.

      New Blood introduced a ghosthunting team called Nightshade Investigations. (Or reintroduced them if you read Dixon Gas.) After a particularly harrowing investigation in Florida, the six-member team, now short a man, took on some new blood. (Yes, hence the title.)

     Responsible team leader Caroline Richards, dour psychic Roger Forester, skeptical researcher Joyce Koenen, smart-ass photographer Kyle Simmons, and cheerful all around do-boy Stewart Franz were joined by new tech girl Lena “don’t call me Darlene” Ashcroft, a petite femme with cutting issues. Their first new mission in nearly two months, a Flagstaff house haunting, introduced them to rock hoarding geologist Kat Prescott and Pete the Vampire, a goat blood-drinking hydraulic engineer with filed canines and a talent for smelling blood.

       I know, I know. But it’s about to get weirder.

      Two weeks have passed since the events of New Blood. During that time the team examined the intriguing evidence gathered in Flagstaff and plotted their next move. That move is going to seriously test this eclectic band of nut-jobs, taking them far into the remote depths of Grand Canyon on the hunt for a wandering specter. Along the way they’ll encounter a variety of paranormal activity—well, I really can’t say more without spoiling the fun. So, without further ado…

       Let the adventure continue!

PART ONE

No Escape!

PART TWO

Over the Edge

PART THREE

Camps Remote

PART FOUR

The Way Out?

Dedicated to

B.R.

In the canyon’s embrace

Author's Note

Things change. An observant reader who has

been to Grand Canyon recently may notice that some details are different.

The Canyon Phantom

takes place in 2003; many things have changed since then.

There are bathrooms at Three Mile

Rest house and near the Colorado River on Bright Angel Trail.

The tables and benches near the hiker’s dorms at Phantom Ranch are different.

There may be some other things that don’t quite match up.

I know they say you can’t live in the

past but…

                      PART ONE: No Escape!

       1.

       Everyone loves pizza: that was the conclusion Joyce had come to. Not a scientific diagnosis per se, just an irrefutable fact of life. Pizza is so versatile. Even lactose intolerant people can get lactose-free cheese. Vegans and Hindus can get soy cheese substitutes. A person can choose from so many different flavors and styles and combinations, different crusts and sauces and veggies and meats and other kinds of toppings. So it seemed illogical that anyone would turn their nose up at pizza. And if they did, frankly, Joyce would have a hard time trusting them.

      Today was a day off for Nightshade Investigations. A day to rest and get away from each other. Naturally that meant picking up a couple of pies and some wine and sitting in front of the TV watching shitty reality shows. And for Joyce and her peeps there was only one place in Sedona, Arizona for quality pizza: Picazzo’s Organic Italian Kitchen, off 89A. Fresh, healthy and oh so delicious. The kind of place that put the former owner of their headquarters out of business.

      “Hello, can I take who’s next?” A blond-haired young man waved at Joyce. She’d been waiting behind an older couple who were currently being escorted to a table in the wide-open dining room. The young man, Toby, smiled amiably. “Welcome to Picazzo’s.”

       “Hey,” Joyce said, stepping forward. “I’m ordering takeout.”

       “You know what you want? Or you need a menu?”

      “No. I’ve got this. Let me get a medium Diavola and a small Vortex, both on whole grain crust. Extra cheese on the Vortex.”

       Toby scribbled the order down and nodded. He’d been working at Picazzo’s for a few weeks but definitely recognized a regular like Joyce. He was kind of cute, not as cute as Kyle though. (Huh?)

       “Anything to drink with that?”

       “Nah I think we’re good.”

     “How about complimentary arugula on your pizzas. Very good for you. No extra charge.”

       “Not today Toby. You know what though—give me an order of baked brie. I’m sure Cary would dig that.”

       Why not? Donald Hughs was paying for it. As a per diem, sure, but Joyce hardly ever spent her entire per  diem. (Unlike Kyle and Stewart.) Her father was a hard-working gear jammer that raised Joyce on frugality. Not that he didn’t make decent money but when you have to work that hard for it you don’t take it for granted.

      Toby rang up her order and Joyce handed him three twenties. Then, with change in hand she retreated from the counter. Normally Joyce phoned in her order but she’d been busy with errands this morning and wasn’t sure when she would finish. This might take a few minutes…no matter, quality pizza is always worth the wait.

       “Have a seat,” Toby said. “I’ll holler when it’s ready.”

       “Way ahead of you.”

       Joyce parked herself on a nearby bench and pulled a small notepad from her purse. The top sheet had a bunch of scribbled notes with lines drawn through them. Her to-do list. Mundane stuff actually—drop off dry cleaning; buy gas, TP and wine; blah, blah, blah. Last on the list: pick up pizza. (Last but not least important.)

       “Guess I can cross you off,” she nodded.

      At the same time her wandering ears caught snippets of conversation from the adjacent bench, where two men were chatting. Joyce couldn’t help listening. Seriously, she tried.

      “I was coming down from Shiva Saddle, near upper Phantom Creek,” the closer of the two men said. “But I made a wrong turn and started my descent into Phantom Canyon from the wrong side so I had to backtrack and re-think my course. Since there was no way I could make it down to Phantom Ranch that day I decided to set up camp for the night.”

      They were obviously hikers, not uncommon in this area. The one talking, who looked to be in his late twenties to early thirties, had long, disheveled brown hair, a well-worn blue Exxum Mountain Guides T-shirt, brown shorts and hiking boots. The other man, who had a beefier build, a scraggly black beard and the requisite T-shirt-shorts-boots combo, nodded and stroked his beard thoughtfully.

       “And that’s where you saw it?”

      “Yeah, not far from my campsite. I went to take a leak around midnight—it was so incredibly dark and quiet. Eerie being alone like that in the middle of nowhere. Well eerier than normal.”

       “That’s a pretty remote area.”

       “Very remote.”

       “Although most of the back country there is remote.”

      “True. So I got up to take a leak and I had my headlamp on. Just outside of the lamplight, on the edge of sight I saw someone walking along. It wasn't just a shadow. It was a person maybe a dozen yards away.”

       “Another hiker?”

     “That’s what I thought. Except it was really weird. If another person was with me way out there why wouldn’t they say something? I turned my head to the right and called out “Hello?” But just like that the person was gone. I walked over, looked around but I couldn’t see any signs that anyone had been there recently. I called out a couple of times, searched the area. It was just so dead.”

       “And you’re sure it wasn’t a trick of the shadows?”

      “One hundred percent positive. It was a person dressed as a hiker. I didn’t get a direct view but he was there.”

      Joyce realized she was listening intently to the conversation. Unless she missed her guess they were talking about a ghost—he saw a ghost hiking out in the middle of nowhere. Interesting.

       “Dude,” the bearded man nodded, “that’s pretty weird.”

       “It gets weirder. Have you ever heard of a book called Over the Edge, about deaths in Grand Canyon?”

       “I saw it for sale in the campground store at the South Rim.”

      “One of the best books I’ve ever read. Kind of morbid but totally fascinating. It recounts all of the people that have died in Grand Canyon, whether from falls or drowning or heat exhaustion, or whatever and it’s divided into categories. Well it turns out a few people have died up in Phantom Canyon. During a flash flood two people were washed down the Colorado River but there was also a solo hiker named Brad Rayner. He died in 1975 after falling or leaping thirty feet. The book suggests that he was disoriented and trying to get down in a spot where he was cliffed out.”

       “And you think maybe you saw his ghost?”

      “Who knows. As good a hypothesis as any.”

    Finally Joyce couldn’t mind her own business any longer. Why eavesdrop when you can barge right in on a conversation?

       “Excuse me,” she said. “Pardon me. I hate to be a buttinski…”

      The two men suspended their discussion and turned to Joyce. Both wore easygoing grins, although the guy with the long hair was hotter in a scraggly hiker sort of way. He ran a hand through his chaotic locks with a nod of acknowledgment.

      “What’s up?”

      “Yeah, hey, I was just sitting here rudely listening in.”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “I’m part of a paranormal investigation team.”

       “Really?”

      “Yeah. So naturally your story intrigues me.”

       “Naturally.”

     “Do you really think you saw Rayner’s ghost?”

      “I have no idea but it kind of fits, doesn’t it? I mean, what if he was lost and trying to get out of the canyon, then he died in a fall but his ghost is still trying to find its way out. It’s kind of intriguing.”

       “And this is in Grand Canyon, right?”

       “Yeah. Are you familiar with the terrain?”

       Joyce smirked. “I’m not much of a hiker actually.”

      “Ah. Well on the north side of the Colorado River there’s a spur canyon called Bright Angel that follows a creek up to the north rim along a massive fault line. A bunch of side canyons branch off from Bright Angel; one of them is called Phantom Canyon.”

       “Nice name.”

      “Right? Kind of appropriate. Anyway I was pretty far down Phantom Canyon, near the confluence with Haunted Canyon, quite a way from where Rayner’s body was supposedly found. If his ghost really is wandering around out there he’s not just stuck in the place where he died. So maybe he is still trying to escape from the canyon.”

       Joyce’s lips curled into a smile. “Haunted Canyon, huh? And you say this book lists a bunch of other deaths?”

       “Oh yeah, every death on record for like, a hundred years.”

       “By the way, my name is Joyce.”

       “James,” he smiled.

    His bearded companion nodded. “Richard.” Then he added “So Joyce, are you thinking of hunting for Rayner’s ghost?”

     “Well, I’ll definitely run it by our team leader,” Joyce said. “She’ll probably be thrilled to death.”

      Personally Joyce didn’t relish the notion of hiking for any length of time but it might be nice to see prissy little Lena struggling on the trail, having to get all dusty and carry a backpack. Hm… She turned to James as her little wheels started turning.

      “Maybe you can write down where you were at—the approximate location I mean. In case Cary wants to go for it.”

     “Sure.” James shrugged. “Got some paper?”

       Joyce folded back her to-do list, dug through her purse for a pen and handed them both to James.

       “The book puts him near the headwaters of Phantom Creek but I was considerably farther down from that. The simplest way would probably be up the mouth of Phantom Canyon from the North Kaibab trail.”

       “Okay.”

       “You might want to plan on a few days.”

       “Days, really?”

       “Of course it all depends on your hiking ability but it’s pretty far from Phantom Ranch which is pretty far from the rim.”

       “Gotcha.”

       After scribbling down a few instructions and notes James handed the notepad back to Joyce with a smile. She had never seen either man around town—that didn’t mean they weren’t indigenous but Joyce guessed them to be visitors.

      “So,” she mused, putting the notepad and pen back in her purse, “you guys aren’t from around here are you?”

   James shook his head. “Oakland, California.”

        “St. Louis,” Richard said.

      “Wow, so did you just bump into each other?”

        “No, we’ve known each other for years,” James said. “Richard used to live in Oakland. Then he moved out to St. Louis to work for a consulting firm. I go hiking in Grand Canyon all the time but Richard can only get out here sporadically. Our friend Jeremy was supposed to meet us too but he had to cancel at the last minute.”

       James, Richard, Jeremy. Where had Joyce heard those names together before? Some kind of TV show. Anyway…

        “So how long are you out here for?” she asked Richard.

       He smirked. “I have to fly back tomorrow. I’ve only been here three days. But, you know, duty calls. So do you live here?”

       “Yup.”

       “Must be nice.”

       “It is actually.”

      “I wish my company would open up a Flagstaff office but I’m pretty sure that won’t happen.” He stroked his beard ruefully.

       “Doesn’t hurt to hope, right?”

       “I guess not.”

       “You could always change professions.”

       “Yeah, probably.”

       Suddenly Toby called out and waved to James and Richard. Their food was up. The two men stood and paused to bid farewell to Joyce. They were close to the same height but otherwise completely different.

        “It was good talking to you,” James said. “I hope you guys get to track down Mister Rayner.”

    “Anything’s possible,” Joyce replied. “Thanks for the info. If you have any more bizarre experiences stop on by. We’re called Nightshade Investigations and we have an office about a mile down the road. Look sharp, it’s easy to miss.”

       “Sure thing.”

      “Have a safe trip back to St. Louis, Richard.”

      The bearded man nodded. “Be safe in the canyon. That’s some pretty intense terrain. Best to have someone with experience around. And check in at the back country office.”

        “We’ll look into it definitely.”

      After James and Richard gathered their food they waved goodbye and were gone. That left Joyce alone to contemplate the unexpected lead. She was actually starting to get into this whole ghost hunting thing. Plus she kept picturing Lena coping with a long hike in the wilderness. Win-win, right? First a little research was in order, to map out specifics. Pizza and research. The two things Joyce loved most. Then home to break the news to Cary, who was going to pee her pants with excitement.

        Joyce grinned, and sat back to wait for her pies.

       2.

        On her way home from Picazzo’s Joyce stopped at a bookstore called The Well-Read Coyote, located less than a block from Nightshade’s home base. She picked up a copy of Over the edge, paid, and forced herself to leave. (Normally she would hang out and browse for a while but hot pizza negated that option today.) Just thumbing through the book filled her with intrigue. No doubt she’d be up late reading.

       Minutes later she was pulling into the driveway at Cary’s house. The time: 1:30 p.m. Still time to drink wine and watch shitty reality shows. Joyce grabbed her pizzas and book, squinting from the bright dazzle of early afternoon sun, and headed inside, where Cary had already gotten a head start on the day’s slouching. She sat on the TV-facing couch in a pair of teal blue cotton pajamas, sipping a glass of white zin. Of course, being Cary, she had also covered the coffee table with a slew of paperwork.

     “Pizza’s here,” Joyce called out. She dropped her purse on the kitchen counter, then walked her delicious cargo over to the dining room table. “Go ahead and pour me some wine, huh?”

       “Already did,” Cary said. “It’s been waiting for you.”

        “Sorry I’m a little late. I had to make a stop on the way home. Pick up a new book.”

         “Oh?”

       As Cary stood with a groaning yawn Joyce walked into the living room holding her newly acquired reading material. Cary sure looked relaxed with her soft jammies and lop-sided ponytail. In fact Joyce felt over-dressed in a T-shirt and shorts. Better down-shift a little.

       “Yeah, you’re gonna love it. Um…” Joyce pointed at the coffee table. “What’s all that?”

      “Oh, you know, bills and notes and a bunch of other stuff.”

         “I thought this was our day off.”

       “It is. It is.” Cary held up her glass of wine. “Just, you know, a little catching up on basics. So what did you buy?”

       Joyce felt herself grinning. “You’re gonna totally love this. Okay, so I was waiting for our pizzas when I overheard two guys talking about a strange experience one of them had while hiking in a remote area of Grand Canyon. He saw a hiker that wasn’t there.”

        “A ghost?” Cary perked up noticeably.

      “Not just any ghost. It turns out that a hiker actually died in the vicinity in 1975. His story is in this book.” Joyce held up the book so Cary could read its title. “We think the ghost may have been him.”

        “I’ve seen that book before. In a gift shop at the South Rim I think. It looked interesting.”

       “It is interesting. Of course I haven’t read much but I glanced through it. All of the different fatalities are broken down by cause. Falls, drowning, heat exhaustion and so on. There are tables at the end of each chapter listing every death on record. Brad Rayner supposedly got disoriented and fell from a thirty-foot high cliff. Maybe he’s still trying to find his way out.”

       “Ghosts in the canyon,” Cary mused in a glittery voice. The wheels upstairs were shifting into overdrive. “It’s perfect for an expedition.”

       “Just what I was thinking. The thing is my pizza companions told me it might take several days and would require a guide.”

      “Who cares? It’s the perfect subject matter. We could gear up and go hunting for this Rayner guy.”

       “And there may be other ghosts along the way.”

       Cary was beaming. “You should pick up the pizza more often.”

       “As long as you’re buying.”

       “Donald is, really.”

       “True.”

      Cary downed her glass of wine in a lusty swig, nodding and staring into space. Like she’d been struck dumb. Joyce couldn’t help thinking about how Lena would respond. There were so many things that made this a good idea Joyce conveniently ignored the whole hiking part.

       After some contemplation Cary said “This is going to require a shopping excursion. I have a backpack but we’ll need other supplies, especially if we plan on camping out.”

       Joyce felt her smile flatten. “Camping out?”

      “Why not? I haven’t camped out since I was a kid. There’s a campground at the bottom of the canyon called Bright Angel. My aunt in Flagstaff hikes down there on a regular basis.”

       “So like, camping in a tent?”

       “Absolutely.”

      “I’ve never been camping before,” Joyce said apprehensively.

       “Are you kidding me? Never ever?”

       “Uh, no.”

       Cary gave a little laugh of astonishment. “Holy shit, Joyce. How is it I didn’t know that?”

        “I guess it never came up.”

    “Camping is awesome. At least my childhood memories of it are awesome. I have to admit it’s been a while.”

      “Aren’t there…I don’t know…scorpions and tarantulas and stuff crawling around down there?” Joyce shuddered at the thought.

       “Yeah, pink rattlesnakes too. You just have to be aware of your surroundings. Shake out your shoes in the morning.”

        “Shake them out?”

       “Scorpions look for warm places to curl up.”

       “O—kay.”

       “No worries. Just tap out your shoes. Problem solved.”

      Joyce imagined a scorpion curled up in her shoe. Then she wakes up in the middle of the night, all drowsy, and has to take a leak. She sticks her foot into the shoe and the scorpion bites her on the toe. Or stings her, whatever. Ew. The notion filled her with an acute sense of loathing. Or what if a snake or a tarantula or some weird bug found its way into her tent? Cary could see that Joyce was a little pensive. She poured herself a second glass of wine and took a long sip.

       “Trust me,” she nodded, “it’ll be fine.”

       “Of course.”

      “We just need to be prepared. Think of how cool this can be. We’ll be searching for a lost soul out in the middle of nowhere. It could turn out to be the most intense thing we ever do.”

       “True.”

      Joyce still felt skeptical about the whole camping thing. She had no clue what she was in for but at least she could look forward to Lena’s discomfort. And the idea really did sound exciting. Best to take things one step at a time, do plenty of research on the wildlife.

       “We should celebrate with a slice. Did you get extra cheese on the vortex?”

       “I did.”

       “Excellent.”

       “I also picked up an order of baked brie.”

      “You’re amazing!” Cary was beaming. She had a thing for brie. “So many surprises in one day. I knew I made you my roommate for a reason. Keep up the good work.”

        “Er…yeah.”

     “And you’d better read up on Rayner. Tomorrow we’ll have a group meeting and develop a game plan.”

      “I’ll probably devour the whole book pretty quickly.” Joyce had a voracious appetite for reading. And this one looked like a doozie.

       “I’d expect no less. I’ll start making a list of all the necessities. Plus I’ll probably call Mister Hughs and beg for a little advance, since I doubt any of us has much camping or hiking gear. That could get pricey.”

       “I thought you said you have a backpack.”

       “Sure but I haven’t used it in years. I may have a few other things packed away in the closet…somewhere. Might be best to just go ahead and get some new gear but I’ll do some digging later on and see what I’ve got. By the way, make note of any other fatalities along our course. Once we figure out our course of course.”

       “Already thought of that.”

       “Roger will be in overdrive.”

      Joyce had been so focused on Lena that she hadn’t even thought about how much this would suck for Roger. ‘Lets see him maintain that aristocratic air in the middle of the wilderness, carrying a backpack and hiking down dusty trails!’ she gleefully mused. For the time being she set aside personal concerns and tried not to smile.

       “I hope he can handle it.”

       “Roger can handle a lot,” Cary said.

       “Like in Dixon?”

     “I hate to think of what he went through. You saw how much that situation affected him. Besides, if memory serves you didn’t have such an easy go of it either.”

      “I guess none of us really did.” To put it mildly. Kyle tried to jump out of a window, then he broke Stewart’s nose. Jesse hung himself. Joyce saw shadow people running around. Only Cary got off easy thanks to her special ring. Theoretically. “Oh well, I’m sure he’ll make an excellent hiker.” Joyce tried hard to sound sincere.

        “Uh-huh. He might surprise you.”

        “Sure, why not.”

      “Anyway…” Cary swirled her glass of wine and let her gaze wander briefly. “This is so exciting. First Flagstaff, now Grand Canyon. We’re starting to move farther afield.”

        “A little.”

       “One step at a time Ms. Koenen. But if we can pull this off we’ll be ready for anything, maybe another long road trip, who knows?” Cary took a sip of wine, nodded, and walked over to the waiting pizza. “For now let’s eat. We’re gonna need all the energy we can get.”

        3.

       It all started to go wrong with his ascent up to Shiva Saddle. Until that point Brad still possessed some measure of confidence. He had lined up an ambitious hike—more ambitious than any he’d ever attempted—but it seemed within his grasp. He could still hear the ranger at the South Rim Back Country Office, warning against overzealousness.

       “Keep in mind that all of your previous experience has been on established routes and maintained trails. Wilderness navigating requires back country experience and expert route finding ability. There’s a lot of trackless nothingness out there.”

       Brad responded with confidence. “I’ve had a lot of advice and instruction along the way.”

        “Uh-huh. Also a solo hike is ill-advised.”

       “Well it’s just me. I don’t really have any hiking partners.”

        “We could always try to find someone on a similar trek.”

        “Nah. Anyway I hike alone all the time. I like the solitude.”

       Solitude. He had that in spades now. His last human contact had been with the friendly boater that took him from the base of Hermit Trail, across the Colorado River to the mouth of Crystal Creek. He saw several people after leaving the campsite but his excursion north of the Colorado had been a journey into increasingly more intense isolation. Ever since waving goodbye to the boater it felt like he’d been dropped off the face of the earth.

     Sometimes the silence became a bit oppressive, even threatening. Any trace of civilization lay at least ten miles away in any direction. Despite such thoughts he had been sticking pretty close to the itinerary (with the exception of switching to the more direct route down Hermit Trail.) From the Colorado he headed up Crystal Creek to the mouth of Dragon Creek, then veered right (northeast) up Dragon to the base of Shiva Saddle. The saddle, which rose nearly two thousand feet above Dragon Creek, spanned a small gap between Shiva Temple and the North Rim—twelve hundred and fourteen hundred feet higher in elevation respectively.

       Hiking up Shiva Saddle was proving more strenuous than he anticipated. He found the correct drainage but kept losing the route and had to backtrack several times. Long before reaching the top of his steep, treacherous ascent exhaustion began to set in. Shiva Temple towered above him; Dragon creek was far away and far below, out of sight.

     Trying to find a wilderness route far surpassed his expectations for difficulty. He had a topographic map and plenty of instruction, not to mention two books on back country hiking. But this landscape was intricate and confounding. Features on the map were sometimes hard to make out from the ground level, and even the best map didn’t show all the dips and gullies and scree slopes and subtle contours that shaped this hopelessly convoluted sea of rock.

     Without even realizing it Brad’s confidence and certainty had begun to be undermined. Questions kept popping into his mind but they were countered by bullish determination. His singular focus tried to harden around a tenuous reality.

     “People do this all the time,” he told himself. “Butchart hiked all over the place.”

      True enough. And yet Harvey Butchart had vast knowledge and intimate canyoneering experience. Brad carried a copy of Butchart’s book in his backpack, for inspiration mainly, since the routes described were fairly vague. Butchart gave a shorthand account of his route around Cheop’s Pyramid, nothing technically specific though. Only a route.

       “You can do this. Just take one step at a time.”

       One step. And how many more thousands of steps after that? The problem is the lack of established trails meant that nothing was marked and reading the landscape could be difficult. The terrain was so deceptive and confusing.

       “Don’t give up.”

       He glanced to the right—the south—and let his eyes climb the towering shape of Shiva Temple. Above him the saddle formed a bridge between Shiva Temple and the North Rim. First he would have to get to the top of the saddle. Then he’d have to make his way south toward the drainage into Trinity. After that came the long trek around Isis and Cheop’s Pyramid, although theoretically he could scramble down to Bright Angel Campground instead of circling back around to Shiva Saddle, as per his plan.

       Oh well, he couldn’t just stay here. One way or another he’d have to plot a course back to civilization. First things first. Get up to the saddle. That meant, well, hiking up. He hoisted his pack higher, trying to ignore the subtle ache in his shoulders, and pushed his tired muscles into motion. He chose a break that looked adequate, then continued an ascent that would prove much more difficult and dangerous than anticipated.

      For a while he picked his way through an uneven but gradual terrain. Things got a little trickier as he began encountering scree slopes with sharp drop-offs. He had to navigate around the worst parts and scramble up the rest, a task made even more complicated by his mounting fatigue. Every now and again his route would hit a dead end, causing him to backtrack. A few of these reroutes took considerable time and energy. The day was getting late; eventually he’d have to set up camp, get some food and rest and continue first thing in the morning.

       It may have been a mounting sense of anxiety that caused what happened next. Or exhaustion and dehydration. Or, most likely, a combination of all three. With daylight vanishing, while hurriedly navigating a particularly treacherous bit of loose rock he felt his feet slide out from under him. The resulting tumble happened so fast that he couldn’t prevent it. Down the slope he went, rolling and bouncing like a rag doll until a large rock arrested his descent.

      Who knows how far he fell? It all happened so fast, and before he knew it his head collided with the large rock and everything came to a screeching halt. Small rocks and debris showered down around him; dirt spilled into his face and eyes. For a minute he lay there shaking, unable to quickly process the sudden fall. Pain throbbed in his left temple and immediately told him some kind of damage had been done.

       “Shit.”

      His words trembled with shock and terror. What if he had seriously injured himself? What if he had broken bones? No one would ever find him out here, not unless they stumbled down this same slope. Several minutes passed as he tried to catch his breath and calm down. Slowly it became evident that he could move all his limbs. They were probably bruised and scraped but everything worked fine. Thank goodness!

       At length he sat up, causing a bolt of shrieking pain to rip through his skull. The tumbled landscape spun in wicked circles and his vision pulsed as a trickle of liquid ran down his cheek.

         Blood.

      He reached up and touched the spot where his head collided with the rock. A bump was forming, and when he pulled his fingers away they were stained with sticky red fluid. As if on cue he felt his senses swoon and his stomach acid boiled.

         “Dammit.”

      What was he thinking? What was he doing? For a minute time seemed to stand still. Descending beams of daylight peeked over the western side of Dragon Canyon as the lower terraces filled with rising shadows. Night came early in Grand Canyon, when the setting sun was blocked by massive rock towers. Clearly he couldn’t go on any longer today. But he couldn’t stay here at the base of a scree slope, bruised and dirty and bleeding. He couldn’t just sit here motionless.

        “Do something,” he told himself.

       But his thoughts were suffocated by the still, lonely nothingness. A kind of stunned paralysis took over, punctuated by anxious heartbeats and measured by the lengthening shadows. This was supposed to be an adventure; the ultimate canyon hike. In short order his beleaguered brain tried to assess everything.

       He was alone. At least a two-day hike away from any help, if he could navigate the terrain. His water supplies were thin—they had been for the last couple of days. He had mediocre gear and a complex itinerary that now seemed untenable.

      “No one can help me,” he whispered in breathless shock. “No one will even miss me for another week.”

      Thoughts of completing his original trek vanished. The notion of days upon agonizing days lost in the wilderness took on a horrifying new reality. Even if he could find his way he might be dealing with a concussion. He could have another accident or the water might run out before a source could be located. Creeks and springs in this area were nonexistent. He knew the general direction of salvation though.

       “Start with the basics,” he tried to reason. “Make camp.”

       Right, he had to slow down, think this through. Focus on the basics. Except every time he tried to focus it hurt. And every time it hurt he felt his anxiety rise.

      “You’re injured,” he exhaled, trying to stay calm. “Slow down, think it through.” But his shaky words competed with a backdrop of oppressive silence and rapidly increasing darkness. “You’re not dead yet but you’re hurt and disoriented. The best bet is to wait out the night and reassess your ascent. If you can get over the saddle and down to Phantom Creek…head for the North Kaibab trail…it may take a day or two…”

      Painfully his gaze focused on the tortuous landscape—long, unmarked miles of eroding hillsides and deadly cliffs that tumbled on and on seemingly forever. He would have to find a way, find a path back and not succumb to injuries or the scorching desert heat.

       A part of him didn’t want to give up. It felt like turning back from his objective would tag him as a failure. He would be admitting his inexperience and ineptitude. Even the ranger had known that this would be a bad idea. Brad still wanted to prove he could do it but that might lead him farther into peril. And his current situation was perilous enough.

      “No one will fault you for being pragmatic. Dying alone in the wilderness won’t prove anything.”

    The thought of dying sent his mind spiraling out of control. Every heartbeat forced an electric jolt into his right temple. Every swallow fought to hold back a steadily rising surge of acid. No doubt about it: he had to find a way out. And the longer it took, the harder it would get.

       “Stay calm. Think slowly.”

       He tried to find a focal point.

       “Assess your situation.”

      Right. Do an assessment. Damage, supplies. At least his backpack had stayed on. He cautiously moved into a sitting position and felt crackles of pain in his arms and legs.

        “Scrapes. Only scrapes.”

       He checked to be sure. Blood oozed from the scapes but nothing too severe. He could move his arms and legs, fingers and toes. No broken ribs as far as he could tell; maybe some bruising. His breathing seemed okay, if not a little unsteady, but every breath fueled another pulse. Every pulse made his head injury throb.

       “You’re obsessing,” he told himself. “Obsessing will only make it worse. Panic and anxiety will only make it worse. People make poor decisions in a panic.”

       Fine logic but his obsession operated on a different wavelength, beyond his control. It was made up of immense distances and unmarked terrain, uncertain options and unanswerable questions, all filtered through a mental hold that bordered on tenuous.

       “This is no place to sleep. Maybe start by finding a better camping location and do a more thorough examination.”

      He pushed his glasses up with shaky fingers—miraculously the glasses had managed to stay on during his fall—then he gathered his legs underneath him and carefully pushed into a standing position. Once fully upright the pain in his temple pulsed, blurring his vision and twisting his stomach. A split-second later he dropped to his knees and, before he could stop himself, loosed a surge of vomit into the dusty gravel.

       “Don’t puke!” he pleaded with himself. “You’ll get dehydrated. Calm down. Hold it in.”

       Before he could regain his composure another surge forced its way out. He hadn’t eaten much today so most of what came up was bitter stomach acid that burned his throat. The brief round of puking was finalized by a few desperate dry heaves as his head pounded and the desolate landscape spun dizzily around him.

       “Shit. Oh shit.”

      It had to be a concussion. Which made his situation much more dangerous. With medical care out of reach he’d have to hope it was a mild concussion. Even then he knew that going to sleep was a bad idea, since he might never wake up. His body started trembling as aftershocks from his sudden expulsion filtered through him. The pounding in his temple became almost unbearable.

       He couldn’t hike uphill, at least not right now. The most important thing was to stay calm and give his body a chance to stabilize. Be patient. Stick with logic.

       “You’ll have to wait out the night here. Try to stay awake and reassess in the morning.”

      Rising shadows crept up around him as the sun slid behind the western rim of Dragon Canyon. Night definitely came early in the inner canyon. Morning was a long way off. As darkness gradually blotted out the landscape his anxiety couldn’t help rising. He felt so alone and terrified. He couldn’t just get up and go home. Life, work, family receded in the trackless expanse of nothing.

      As hard as he tried to stay calm he couldn’t help a sensation of mounting dread. A small, frightened voice in the back of his mind whispered with anxiety.

       “There’s no way out.”

       “There’s a way out,” he insisted. “You just have to find it.”

       “No way out. No escape.”

       “Just get through the night. Stay awake until morning.”

      Morning. It seemed impossible that he could last that long. But he had to try. With an aching groan he pulled off his backpack and removed the ensolite pad. Apart from his clumsy movements no other sounds could be heard, just an occasional whisper of wind swirling through the canyon. Even the nervous shudder of his own voice didn’t seem real. It competed blandly with the surreal illusion he found himself encompassed by.

       “Stay calm. Be logical.”

       The words disintegrated outside his lips, only to be swallowed in the vacuum like errant vapors.

       “Lost. Alone.”

       Still trembling he tried to get comfortable in preparation for the long night ahead.

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