Sparrow Hill Road 2010 By Seanan(61)
The newspaper clipping is fresh, still clean around the edges. It'll yellow and curl as it ages, but right now, it's a little piece of sweet and recent pain. LOCAL TRUCKER DIES IN TRAGIC CRASH says the headline. Larry Vibber, age 42..., that's how the article begins. There's a sidebar—there's always a sidebar—and that's what really makes my heart hammer against my ribs, like a raccoon kit caught in a snare and trying as hard as it can to work its way free. Suddenly, this little outing doesn't seem nearly as funny as it did a few minutes ago.
A GHOST STORY COMING TRUE? The tale of the Girl in the Diner is a familiar one on these American highways, and some of Mr. Vibber's fellow truckers have reason to believe that it's true...
And then: Larry Vibber's body was the only one retrieved from the crash. So what, then, explains the woman's jacket in the seat next to his?
Stupid stupid stupid Rose; there's only so much evidence you can leave, only so many breadcrumbs you can scatter before the witch in the woods starts catching up with you. "Whoa," I say, hoping I don't sound as unsteady as I feel. "So you're hunting for the ghost of Larry Vibber?"
"Better," says Jamie. "We're hunting for the Girl in the Diner."
I nod slowly. "Of course you are."
***
It makes a certain sort of fucked-up sense. If you're going to catch a ghost, why not start big? Why not start with a ghost that everybody's heard of? I suppose I should be flattered that this little crew of collegiate ghost hunters wants to stuff me into a soul jar—or whatever it is the kids are calling it these days—but mostly, I feel the serious need to run very far, very fast. There's just one problem with that little plan. If they're going the high-tech route, I'm fine. But if whoever gave them that book also gave them some more traditional routes for attracting the restless dead, this could be a bad night for everyone concerned.
"Who did you say gave this to you?" I ask, looking around the group. "I mean, 'cause wow. If I had the stuff to hunt a ghost, I'd probably want to hunt it myself, you know?"
"She can't," says Marla, stiffly. "She's a professor. It wouldn't be appropriate."
"A professor? Of what? Ghostology?"
"The University of Ohio doesn't have a parapsychology department," says Physicist One. "If we did, we'd have faculty support."
"Professor Moorhead teaches American History," says Jamie, and flips to the front of the book, where the face of a woman stares out at me from another, older newspaper clipping. The picture is black and white, but I know her hair is dirty blonde, and that the eyes behind her glasses are pale, and cold.
PROFESSOR LAURA MOORHEAD TO SPEAK ON THE LEGEND OF THE GIRL IN THE DINER, that's what the caption underneath says. I take a breath. Force a smile. And ask the one question that stands a shot at saving me:
"So what do we do first?"
***
It turns out that what we do first involves driving out to tonight's designated hunting ground, an abandoned diner in what was once a truck stop, and is now a deserted patch of asphalt and gravel. The freeway redirected the traffic, the trucks stopped coming, and time moved on. I've seen it before, these little dead spots, and they break my heart a little more each time. I ride in the back with Angela and the Physicists, ceding the front seat to Marla in the vain hope that it will make her glare at me a little less. This night's going to be long enough as it is.
"So how long have you been into ghosts, Rose?" asks Angela. She's trying to make conversation. I appreciate that.
Answering "since I died" seems like a bad idea just about now. I pretend to give her question serious thought before I say, "Oh, forever, I guess. It sure seems that way sometimes."
Angela nods, expression set in a look of absolute and total conviction as she says, "I started really believing when I was eight. That's when my grandfather's ghost came to me and told me that things were going to get better."
Scrooge was right about one thing: most spectral visitations are actually dreams or indigestion. I have to fight to keep my eyes wide and filled with belief. And if her grandfather really did come to visit her when she was a kid, why the hell does she think catching a ghost is a good way to spend a Friday night? If anyone was going to be live and let not-live about the dead, it should have been her.
"Have you ever experienced a genuine paranormal visitation?" demands Physicist Two.
I'm still trying to figure out how to answer that one when the minivan pulls to a stop outside the broken-down old diner. "We're here!" announces Jamie, with near-maniac cheer. "Everybody out and to your stations. Rose, you're with me."
Marla shoots me an absolutely venomous look as I slide out of my seat and move to stand next to Jamie. He hands me a container of salt, ignoring her displeasure.