“RHParanormal. Richard Holt. I suppose that’s the second person he claims he tried to help.”
There were no more posts in the thread. Jenine rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms. “What do we do now?” she asked.
“Keep looking.” Bree was already back on Google, searching for “ghost camera” and “death camera”.
Jenine glanced back at the pictures laid out on the table and felt queasy. The people in the forum had only taken a couple of shots. She’d taken eight. She stood up and stretched her shoulders, trying to look nonchalant. “Actually, it’s past dinner. I don’t know about you, but I can’t think with an empty stomach. How about I get some food while you keep on there?”
Bree shot her a smile. “Sounds good.”
“Anything you want?”
“Whatever you have, babe. I’m not fussy.”
Jenine started rifling through her cupboards. She grabbed a tin of tuna, intending to make tuna sandwiches, then hesitated. What if this is my last meal? Do I really want it to be tuna on toast?
She tossed the fish back onto the shelf and picked out a packet of nachos and a tub of salsa. She dumped them both in a bowl, poured the remains of a packet of shredded cheese on top, and put it in the microwave.
Bree was muttering to herself again, which meant she’d found something good. Jenine peered at the computer screen, but it was too far away to read. She turned back to her task and grabbed a tub of sour cream out of the fridge. She was peeling away the seal when an invisible hand grabbed her arm. The touch burnt like a thousand ice-cold needles being pressed into her skin, constricting the flesh and muscles, and sending jolts down into her elbow and up into her shoulder.
Jenine screamed and dropped the sour cream, which splattered over the tiled floor and her jeans, but she hardly noticed. The hand hadn’t let go, and every second it held on, the pain increased. She jerked back and smacked her free hand at where the invisible wrist should be, but she touched only air. The grip tightened, and the ice spread through her body, rushing up her arm and into her chest.
She threw herself back, trying to find relief. Eyes squeezed shut, she screamed. Then, as abruptly as it had grabbed her, the invisible hand let go.
She found herself on her back, lying in the spilled sour cream. Bree was yelling her name and shaking her shoulders. Jenine felt sick, but she doubted she had enough in her stomach to bring up, so pulled herself to her knees. A headache, the kind she got when she tried to eat ice, gnawed at her head.
“Jenny?” Bree’s voice was unsteady. “Talk to me, Jenny. What happened? What can I do?”
‘I… I…” Jenine rubbed her hand over the aching skin. A bruise was forming, shaped like a palm and fingers.
Bree looked down and let out her breath in a hiss. She hooked one arm under Jenine’s shoulders and pulled her up. “C’mon, we’re getting in the car.”
“Huh?”
“I found something that might help, but we can’t do it here. Hang on. I’ll get the camera.”
Jenine hovered in the hallway, waiting for Bree. The hairs on her arms were raised and she had goose bumps down her back. The house felt suddenly ice cold. She let her eyes rove over the furniture, the fixtures and the photos she’d hung in the hallway. They felt alien, as though a stranger had come in the night and replaced everything with imitations. It was surreal. She rocked onto the balls of her feet and wrapped her arms around her chest, panting.
Bree reappeared, holding not just the camera but also a slip of paper. One look at her face told Jenine she’d made a decision. Bree’s panic from before was gone, replaced by sheer determination. “Into the car, quickly,” she said, ushering Jenine to the door. “We’re going for a drive.”
The rain was coming down in thick sheets, flattening Jenine’s hair and sending a trickle crawling down the small of her back. They ran for the car, feet slapping on the cooling
There were no more posts in the thread. Jenine rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms. “What do we do now?” she asked.
“Keep looking.” Bree was already back on Google, searching for “ghost camera” and “death camera”.
Jenine glanced back at the pictures laid out on the table and felt queasy. The people in the forum had only taken a couple of shots. She’d taken eight. She stood up and stretched her shoulders, trying to look nonchalant. “Actually, it’s past dinner. I don’t know about you, but I can’t think with an empty stomach. How about I get some food while you keep on there?”
Bree shot her a smile. “Sounds good.”
“Anything you want?”
“Whatever you have, babe. I’m not fussy.”
Jenine started rifling through her cupboards. She grabbed a tin of tuna, intending to make tuna sandwiches, then hesitated. What if this is my last meal? Do I really want it to be tuna on toast?
She tossed the fish back onto the shelf and picked out a packet of nachos and a tub of salsa. She dumped them both in a bowl, poured the remains of a packet of shredded cheese on top, and put it in the microwave.
Bree was muttering to herself again, which meant she’d found something good. Jenine peered at the computer screen, but it was too far away to read. She turned back to her task and grabbed a tub of sour cream out of the fridge. She was peeling away the seal when an invisible hand grabbed her arm. The touch burnt like a thousand ice-cold needles being pressed into her skin, constricting the flesh and muscles, and sending jolts down into her elbow and up into her shoulder.
Jenine screamed and dropped the sour cream, which splattered over the tiled floor and her jeans, but she hardly noticed. The hand hadn’t let go, and every second it held on, the pain increased. She jerked back and smacked her free hand at where the invisible wrist should be, but she touched only air. The grip tightened, and the ice spread through her body, rushing up her arm and into her chest.
She threw herself back, trying to find relief. Eyes squeezed shut, she screamed. Then, as abruptly as it had grabbed her, the invisible hand let go.
She found herself on her back, lying in the spilled sour cream. Bree was yelling her name and shaking her shoulders. Jenine felt sick, but she doubted she had enough in her stomach to bring up, so pulled herself to her knees. A headache, the kind she got when she tried to eat ice, gnawed at her head.
“Jenny?” Bree’s voice was unsteady. “Talk to me, Jenny. What happened? What can I do?”
‘I… I…” Jenine rubbed her hand over the aching skin. A bruise was forming, shaped like a palm and fingers.
Bree looked down and let out her breath in a hiss. She hooked one arm under Jenine’s shoulders and pulled her up. “C’mon, we’re getting in the car.”
“Huh?”
“I found something that might help, but we can’t do it here. Hang on. I’ll get the camera.”
Jenine hovered in the hallway, waiting for Bree. The hairs on her arms were raised and she had goose bumps down her back. The house felt suddenly ice cold. She let her eyes rove over the furniture, the fixtures and the photos she’d hung in the hallway. They felt alien, as though a stranger had come in the night and replaced everything with imitations. It was surreal. She rocked onto the balls of her feet and wrapped her arms around her chest, panting.
Bree reappeared, holding not just the camera but also a slip of paper. One look at her face told Jenine she’d made a decision. Bree’s panic from before was gone, replaced by sheer determination. “Into the car, quickly,” she said, ushering Jenine to the door. “We’re going for a drive.”
The rain was coming down in thick sheets, flattening Jenine’s hair and sending a trickle crawling down the small of her back. They ran for the car, feet slapping on the cooling
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