“Okay,” Spaatz continued. “Find your partner and I’ll let you know where you’re stationed for the evening.” He waved a clipboard with a sheaf of papers on it. “Take baseline EMF and temperature readings as soon as you get to your observation point. Cell phones will screw up the readings, so everyone dump your phones in here.” He held up a plastic tub.
“The lights will be off to make it easier for Cyril to manifest, if he wants to,” Spaatz said. “Use your red light flashlights if necessary. Any questions?”
“Where do you want the chaperones?” I asked. “And what’s EMF?”
Spaatz smiled. “Good questions. EMF is electromagnetic field. Our Mel 8704s”—he held up the GPS-like gadget—“read fluctuations in the EMF. Without getting too technical, certain readings that can’t be correlated to household electronics like microwave ovens or TVs suggest the presence of a spirit. Or, at least that’s what ghost believers maintain. Got it?”
Sure, I was ready to do a dissertation on the subject. I shrugged and he grinned.
“As to where the chaperones should hang out, you’re floaters—no pun intended. Just wander between the positions where our researchers”—he gestured to the kids—“are stationed. I’ve got flashlights and a diagram for each of you.”
Coach Peet stomped forward, taking the sheet that Spaatz handed him. The kids lined up to get their stations from Spaatz. I noticed Rachel was paired with Braden, and Mark and the tall brunette stuck together. I wondered uneasily if boy-girl pairings would lead to . . . indiscretions (as Mom would put it) in a darkened house.
“We’re on the landing,” Lonnie Farber’s buddy crowed. “We’re gonna be in on the action.” The two youths bumped fists.
“ ‘I ain’t afraid of no ghosts,’ ” Lonnie sang in a tuneful baritone.
Spaatz frowned. “Lonnie, Tyler, this isn’t a game. It’s a legitimate science experiment. Take it seriously, or take a hike.”
When Spaatz turned away, Lonnie cut a sly glance at his buddy. I knew they were planning something, probably some prank that would make me sorry I had agreed to chaperone. Lonnie caught me staring at him, and instead of looking away like I thought he would, he winked.
It was going to be a long night.
Chapter Three
TRAIPSING AROUND THE OLD MANSION IN THE NEAR total dark was slightly unnerving, even though, like Lucy, I didn’t believe in ghosts. Frankly, the thought of what some of the high schoolers might get up to scared me a lot more than the prospect of an encounter with Cyril. In the hour I’d been “floating,” I’d caught one couple necking, found one pair snoozing, discovered one pair missing from their assigned spot, smelled beer on one boy’s breath, and hadn’t run into any of the other chaperones. Just outside the ballroom, I stopped to get my bearings. A film of moonlight made a path across the polished wood floor to the French doors that opened onto a raised stone terrazzo. A breath of a breeze stirred the hair at my temples and I frowned. One of the doors must be open. As I crossed the floor, faint giggles sounded from my left and someone hissed, “Sssh.”
I was halfway across the floor to investigate the giggles when a hideous wailing moan stopped me. Ye gods! The giggles turned to shrieks.
“What was that?” a girl’s voice asked.
I didn’t answer because I was across the room, trotting toward the front hall where I thought the sound had come from. Another moan rose to a screech and died away, sending shivers down my spine. I skidded into the front hall to see fog spilling off the landing and wafting down the staircase. I gasped. Dimly aware of a couple of other people gathered in the darkness of the hall, I kept my gaze riveted to the landing.
Another eerie scream rent the air and I clapped my hands to my ears. Even before it died away, a white form rose from the mist and staggered along the landing. Hm, weren’t ghosts supposed to glide or flit? This one moved more like Frankenstein’s monster. My suspicions aroused—not that I’d ever thought there was really a ghost—I started for the stairs.
“Is someone recording this?” a voice whispered.
I had just reached the landing when Spaatz’s voice asked, “What the hell is going on here?”
Three or four voices answered him, saying “The ghost!” “Did you hear that scream?” and “Cyril’s up there.”
My eyes adjusting to the dimness, I took in Tyler crouched by a machine spilling fog into the hallway, a boom box that emitted another loud shriek as I moved toward it, and a tall figure in white ducking into the nearest bedroom.