Sparrow Hill Road 2010 By Seanan(60)

"Yeah. That's cool." He pauses while he flags down the waitress and orders two slices of pie, one peach, one apple, both ala mode. She heads for the kitchen, and he looks to me, asking, "So is there any chance you have local friends? Relatives? Anything?"

"Sorry, but no. Why do you ask?"

"Oh—I'm in town with the rest of my crew, and this is the part where we all fan out to talk to the locals about, you know, local legends, hauntings, that sort of thing. We're from the University of Ohio." He leans closer, lowers his voice, and says, conspiratorially, "We're here to catch a ghost."

For a moment, I just stare at him. He stares back. And then, in unison, we start laughing.

Oh, this is gonna be too good to miss.

***

Jamie wasn't kidding; he's here to catch a ghost, along with four other students from the University of Ohio. Two are physics majors; one is in folklore; one, for no apparent reason, is in physical education. I'm not so sure what Jamie's major is. I'm just sure that he's in charge, and that his little squad of junior Ghostbusters isn't very happy that he came back from his scouting expedition with a date.

"You do understand that this is a serious scientific expedition?" asks one of the physicists, for the sixth time. Their dialog is practically interchangeable, a long checklist of questions that all boil down to "you are an intruder, you aren't supposed to be here, get out, get out." I'd probably be unable to tell them apart if it weren't for the fact that they look nothing alike, and one of them is a guy. Instead, I take a perverse pleasure in refusing to remember their names.

"We're staking out an abandoned diner somewhere off the highway in hopes of seeing a ghost," I say, dryly. "I'm not seeing the 'serious.'"

"But we're going to get something no one else has ever managed to get," says the folklore major. Angela, I think her name is. She looks like an Angela.

"What's that?" I ask. I love ghost-hunters. They're so hopeful, and so willing to walk wide-eyed into the places where angels—if not Angelas—fear to tread.

"We're going to catch a ghost," says Physicist One.

I start to laugh, stop as I realize that they're serious. "I—wait—what? You can't catch a ghost. I mean, nobody's even all that absolutely certain that they exist. How are you planning to pull this off?"

"We had a little help," admits Jamie. His tone says that he doesn't want to tell me, and his face says that he's been praying for this opening. People like to brag. I think it's an essential part of the human condition. "Marla, get the book."

The phys ed major blinks, her eyebrows knotting themselves together. "Are you sure that's a good idea? We just met this girl."

"I'm sure." Jamie looks at me, chin slightly tilted up, like he's trying to present his best profile. That's when I realize what he thinks my role in this little drama is going to be: I'm the wide-eyed Timmy to his mysterious Mr. Wizard, the adoring ingénue ready to be seduced by his showmanship and drama. I'm okay with that. I've played worse parts in my day. "We can trust her. Can't we, Rose?"

"Absolutely," I agree, nodding so vigorously that for a moment, it feels like my head is going to pop clean off. "I'm really interested. Like, really."

Marla still looks unconvinced, but she turns, rummaging through the big plastic storage bin that serves as the group's "ghost hunting supply chest" until she comes up with a battered brown journal that looks like something you'd find in a high school senior's backpack. She holds it reverently, and for a moment, it seems like she's going to run away from us rather than risking bringing a non-believer into the fold.

Finally, grudgingly, she says, "You'd better be right about her," and thrusts the book, hard, against Jamie's chest. He takes it before it has a chance to fall, and she retreats, joining the sullen, glaring twosome of the physics majors. It's weird, but I'm actually starting to feel a little nervous. Why would she be reacting so badly if they didn't really have something? I understand people getting jealous—Jamie's good-looking, and the way she looks at him tells me she'd like to give him a little physical education on the side—but this isn't jealousy. This is something else.

"Professor Moorhead came to our club meeting, and brought us this," says Jamie. He flips the book open to a point about halfway through, holding it out toward me. He's showing it, not offering it; the distinction is in his hands, the way his fingers grip a little too tightly against the cover. That's okay. I couldn't hold it right now if I wanted to. I'm having enough trouble keeping myself from sitting down involuntarily, because it feels like all the air has just left the room.