one to Bree and the other to Jenine.
“I’m not getting rid of you, am I?” he asked, resignation thick in his voice. “I don’t blame you, but really, truly, there’s nothing I can do.”
“Don’t be so sure of that.” Bree towelled her hair aggressively, making it spike up at odd angles. She paced about the room, glancing at the paintings on the wall. “I found something that might work. Do you have audio equipment that’s sensitive enough to pick up ghosts’ voices?”
Richard snorted. “Of course I do. But if you’re hoping to talk to the spirits, I’m afraid that won’t work. I already tried with my last client. Ghosts don’t think like us. I expect you’re hoping to reason with them, but they’re far too… what’s the word? Instinctual, for that.”
Bree raised her eyebrows questioningly. That was all the prompting Richard needed.
“Ghosts are no longer human. You have to remember that, above everything else. The best way I can explain is that they’re like imprints of emotion. If someone is murdered, dies tragically, or goes insane and kills themselves, the emotions and thoughts experienced immediately before death will be what makes up the ghost. Once they’re created, they have no ability to learn or grow. A man who finds his wife has cheated on him, kills her, then turns a gun on himself will only ever be able to feel those last few strong emotions. Wild rage, resentment against women—especially women who resemble his wife—and self-loathing. He will never be able to let it go. Not until his energy becomes too weak to sustain him, and he dissipates.”
“You lost me,” Bree said as she leaned against the wall.
Richard shrugged and put his hands in his pockets. “Ghosts are, essentially, energy. It’s the same sort of energy that makes us alive, compared to, say, a rock. If a human experienced a significantly strong emotion as they died, it’s often enough to imprint their energy on the spectral plane. However, it will slowly dissolve. Depending on the strength of the initial energy imprint—and how much energy it can find to consume—the ghost may last for a few years or a few decades. Very rarely do they last more than a few hundred years. This is why we don’t have any caveman ghosts. They simply dissolved over time.”
Jenine nodded, thinking about the ghosts in the photos. A few looked as though they’d come from the ’20s or ’30s, but otherwise they were dressed in modern clothes.
“So you’re saying they won’t want to talk?” Bree asked.
“Exactly. They’re energy—pure, raw, instinctive emotion. They’re past reason.”
Jenine could see Bree chewing that over. Their gazes met for a second, then Bree frowned and grabbed Richard’s elbow. “Can we talk? Let’s talk. Come on.”
She ushered him through the door to their left as Jenine watched in stunned silence. She could hear their voices—Bree talking animatedly, almost frantically, and Richard’s subdued responses—but she couldn’t make out any words. She turned back to the paintings as she waited.
The woman by the river had turned to face the painter, her lips peeled back to show rotting teeth. Jenine started, took a step back, then leaned forward again for a better look. Hadn’t she been gazing into the distance before?
Jenine quickly looked at the other paintings. The one to the right showed two puppies lying on the ground, eyes closed. They looked as though they were sleeping. Had they not been juxtaposed with the corpse picnickers, Jenine wouldn’t have looked twice. She leaned closer, and a shudder of disgust rolled through her stomach as she saw the small cluster of flies gathered about the puppies’ eyes.
The door behind her opened and Bree and Richard came back into the room. Bree looked relieved; Richard seemed to be trying hard to keep emotion from showing.
Jenine was glad for a distraction from the morbid images. “Hey,” she said to Richard, trying to lighten the mood,
“I’m not getting rid of you, am I?” he asked, resignation thick in his voice. “I don’t blame you, but really, truly, there’s nothing I can do.”
“Don’t be so sure of that.” Bree towelled her hair aggressively, making it spike up at odd angles. She paced about the room, glancing at the paintings on the wall. “I found something that might work. Do you have audio equipment that’s sensitive enough to pick up ghosts’ voices?”
Richard snorted. “Of course I do. But if you’re hoping to talk to the spirits, I’m afraid that won’t work. I already tried with my last client. Ghosts don’t think like us. I expect you’re hoping to reason with them, but they’re far too… what’s the word? Instinctual, for that.”
Bree raised her eyebrows questioningly. That was all the prompting Richard needed.
“Ghosts are no longer human. You have to remember that, above everything else. The best way I can explain is that they’re like imprints of emotion. If someone is murdered, dies tragically, or goes insane and kills themselves, the emotions and thoughts experienced immediately before death will be what makes up the ghost. Once they’re created, they have no ability to learn or grow. A man who finds his wife has cheated on him, kills her, then turns a gun on himself will only ever be able to feel those last few strong emotions. Wild rage, resentment against women—especially women who resemble his wife—and self-loathing. He will never be able to let it go. Not until his energy becomes too weak to sustain him, and he dissipates.”
“You lost me,” Bree said as she leaned against the wall.
Richard shrugged and put his hands in his pockets. “Ghosts are, essentially, energy. It’s the same sort of energy that makes us alive, compared to, say, a rock. If a human experienced a significantly strong emotion as they died, it’s often enough to imprint their energy on the spectral plane. However, it will slowly dissolve. Depending on the strength of the initial energy imprint—and how much energy it can find to consume—the ghost may last for a few years or a few decades. Very rarely do they last more than a few hundred years. This is why we don’t have any caveman ghosts. They simply dissolved over time.”
Jenine nodded, thinking about the ghosts in the photos. A few looked as though they’d come from the ’20s or ’30s, but otherwise they were dressed in modern clothes.
“So you’re saying they won’t want to talk?” Bree asked.
“Exactly. They’re energy—pure, raw, instinctive emotion. They’re past reason.”
Jenine could see Bree chewing that over. Their gazes met for a second, then Bree frowned and grabbed Richard’s elbow. “Can we talk? Let’s talk. Come on.”
She ushered him through the door to their left as Jenine watched in stunned silence. She could hear their voices—Bree talking animatedly, almost frantically, and Richard’s subdued responses—but she couldn’t make out any words. She turned back to the paintings as she waited.
The woman by the river had turned to face the painter, her lips peeled back to show rotting teeth. Jenine started, took a step back, then leaned forward again for a better look. Hadn’t she been gazing into the distance before?
Jenine quickly looked at the other paintings. The one to the right showed two puppies lying on the ground, eyes closed. They looked as though they were sleeping. Had they not been juxtaposed with the corpse picnickers, Jenine wouldn’t have looked twice. She leaned closer, and a shudder of disgust rolled through her stomach as she saw the small cluster of flies gathered about the puppies’ eyes.
The door behind her opened and Bree and Richard came back into the room. Bree looked relieved; Richard seemed to be trying hard to keep emotion from showing.
Jenine was glad for a distraction from the morbid images. “Hey,” she said to Richard, trying to lighten the mood,
Similar Books
