PAIGE

          I'm really, really starting to believe I should have refused to partner up with Keane.

          Do I believe any of this? Absolutely not; a ghost would have to physically pull me up in the air, toss me around like a rag doll, and possess me for me to buy it . . . and even then I wouldn't be too sure. Even if I believed in the supernatural, I don't think I'd be the chosen one for a possession; Keane was all but begging for it to happen as long as it could be caught on camera and serve as evidence.

          I'm not looking forward to exploring the Boulevard on my own.

          It's not because I'm expecting anything to happen. I'm also glad to have a reason to slip away from Keane and clear my head, still shaken from the moment we shared in Lucinda's dressing room, as it's the second time in a short amount of time I've had to resort to physical contact with him to anchor myself. I shouldn't need him for that; I'm supposed to be the one out of the two of us who keeps their feet firmly planted on solid ground.

          Whatever happened there meant nothing; it was just thanks to the heat of the moment, something prompted by the sudden manifestation in a device I don't know how to use. We don't need to read too much into it and, frankly, it's best if we don't.

          He's already stressed enough about there potentially being a ghost haunting this place (which I doubt, but that's my prerogative); I don't want to be another added factor. We should just do whatever we came here to do, investigate the place, then move on to the next case until the project is completed, we turn it in, graduate, and never say a word to each other again.

          "Let's get this show on the road," I mutter, speaking to the microphone pinned to the lapels of my coat. I have a flashlight, an audio recorder, the stupid EMF meter (Keane thought it would be funny if I brought it along), an infrared thermometer, a head camera, and a video camera with me, both of them equipped with night vision, and there are static cameras and more audio recorders scattered around the building to provide us with extra footage, not to mention the deal Keane made with the owners regarding that of the surveillance cameras. "Expect nothing, don't get disappointed. It's that simple."

          I leave Keane outside by the car, where we'll switch shift turns of this so-called investigation. I told him he could go in first, as he's the one hoping to find something, not me, but he insisted I go without elaborating . . . adding that I didn't have to do it if it was too scary. That set my competitive side into motion—which I suspect is what he wanted all along—so I gathered my equipment and stormed back inside the lobby.

          I'm torn between wanting us to find something just for the sake of his happiness (when did I ever become this sappy? Gross) and wanting to be proven right. I'd never hear the end of it if we somehow find convincing evidence that not even I can find a flaw in and I definitely don't want to put up with the smug look on his face every time the subject comes up, especially during the following episodes.

          Finding evidence would, without a doubt, make for some entertaining content. God knows I could use a laugh or two, something that's not self-deprecating or sarcastic, but there's nothing about my current predicament that makes me want to crack the smallest of smiles.

          I sweep the flashlight's beam around the lobby, trying to find the path to the auditorium without tripping over my feet and flying down the stairs. It would be death number two under this roof, which I doubt would bode well for sales and the Boulevard's reputation.

          Even I have to admit there's something eerie about the silence surrounding me. I can only hear my footsteps and my shallow breathing, so I go into fully manual breathing mode, too self-conscious about my microphone capturing it. I can always edit it out or lower the volume later, but, for some reason, that's what my brain chooses to focus on instead of the task at hand.

          It's just the atmosphere. It's the expectations, I tell myself, slipping through a row of plush red seats. The shadows are messing with you. You're Paige de Haan and you will be fine.

          For the sake of capturing decent footage, I check the EMF meter as I approach the stage, Lucinda's favorite place. The lights flicker green, indicating there's nothing to fear around me, and I have to bite my tongue to resist the urge of scoffing for the millionth time tonight. It's repetitive at this point and, to me, one of the worst things people can be is boring.

          Case in point: the EMF meter is boring. It sounds so interesting in theory, measuring electromagnetic energy and anything that might affect it . . . like Keane's so-called ghosts. In practice, however, it can be influenced by everyday items, like wiring and even cellphones, and it's likely to detect false positives.

          Besides that one manifestation in the dressing room, it has yet to bother me or signal any presence in here that isn't my own, so I'm not holding my breath. It seems sensitive enough to be affected by the littlest things, including those that aren't of supernatural nature; not to sound too cartoonish, but I don't trust this thing to provide irrefutable evidence.

          Even though the building has been renovated and upgraded to meet modern standards, its age is seeping through the cracks. There are certain floorboards that creak louder than others when I step on them, the sound echoing in a cavern. I know better than to be fooled by any illusions created by the arches and the shadows, even if every small noise sounds a lot louder than it is and every dark corner threatens to have something hidden in it.

          My camera brightens my path whenever I snap a photo of the room, but I don't capture anything of note, not even indistinct figures in the distance with the night vision settings turned on. It's just empty red seats, harmless dust motes (Keane calls them orbs, manifestations of the supernatural, but all they do is make me sneeze), and a whole load of nothing.

          My foot steps on a particularly loose floorboard, the loud bang exploding in the silent night. My heart leaps with a start, something I blame on the reason no one likes jumpscares—it's cheap horror, a stretch, a weak effort to frighten people.

          I pause by the edge of the stage, gaining enough momentum to hoist myself up and climb on top of it, something that would be easier to do if I was wearing adequate shoes instead of knee-high boots. I cross my legs, lotus style, and set the EMF meter next to me just as the lights flicker to yellow.

          "What now?" I mutter. Whatever is affecting it now must be the wiring, as I left my phone with Keane. "Can I not sit down on your stage, ghosts? Are you going to call me a bitch again?"

          I'm met with silence and a chilly breeze, raising goosebumps on my arms even when I'm covered by a sweater and a coat. Next to my thigh, my flashlight, pointing up and casting a distant circular beam on the ceiling, flickers momentarily before stabilizing. I don't need this right now, this stupid malfunctioning piece of equipment; I'm smart enough to let it frighten me, and I certainly won't take it as evidence.

          Part of me wishes ghosts were real—the part of me that longs for some closure, for another opportunity to contact Andy. I know my emotions are getting the better of me, aching for the one thing I can't have, and it's heightened by the atmosphere and the present circumstances. I'd still be feeling miserable if I was rotting in my room, but I wouldn't be thinking about ghosts and the possibility of their existence.

          When people die, that's it. They're just gone. No amount of wishful thinking or belief in the supernatural will ever bring them back, no matter how hard you plead and beg the universe for another chance.

          A pathetic little whimper escapes from my mouth, embarrassingly amplified by the curved, tall walls, the high archways and the wide, open space of the auditorium. Thinking about Andy at a time like this only makes the experience worse, especially while knowing there are cameras capturing this poor excuse of a person that I currently am.

          Pulling my knees close to my chest, I wrap my arms around my legs and take in the auditorium in front of me. Hundreds of people have stepped on this very stage, performing to a packed room, and there's something sinister about empty theaters. There's no spotlight, no applause, no one to impress.

          I don't know what to do with that. My whole life feels performative.

          Sighing, I ignore the yellow lights on the EMF meter the second I notice the bundle of exposed wires dangling from a wall. You'd think such a prestigious place would take better care of safety hazards like this, but all it takes is two amateur ghosthunters (well, one; I'm not hunting a damn thing here) to expose the dangers lurking around every corner—and it's not a ghost. Human error is a deadly threat.

          The stillness of the theater creeps up my spine, sending shivers across my nerves, and I think I feel what Keane mentioned earlier—some kind of weight, something pressing down on me, like . . . like the air is being sucked out of the room. I gulp, finally aware that nothing good ever happens to lone women in dark rooms. There's nothing paranormal here—only shadows, the memory of my dead brother, and the knowledge of how vulnerable I am.

          Keane and I might be the only people in the building, but we don't know if someone will barge in. I don't know if that person will hurt me, simply because they can, and there's no greater cruelty in the world than the pain we're willing to inflict on each other. Humans are the real monsters.

          "Okay, ghosts, let's chat, since you clearly want me to believe you're messing with the EMF meter," I announce, my voice booming even without using a microphone. I have great lungs. "I have a dandy little flashlight right here"—I pat the wooden floor next to said flashlight, inviting these supposed ghosts for a conversation—"and, if you're there, all you have to do is mess with it. Surely even you can do that. Unless you're scared of big, bad Paige."

          They're not afraid of little old me. No one is these days.

          I'm not big and I'm not bad . . . depending on who you ask. To Jeff, I'm the worst person to have ever graced the planet, all because he's still throwing a temper tantrum over us not being friends anymore. At least that's what I think—and hope—he's mad at me for; if he's pissed nothing ever happened between us, then I've given him far more credit than he deserves.

          The worst part of it all is that I actually miss him. I miss Scott, my friend, the one who helped me so much with my birthday party last year, the one who listened to me blabber about my wasted potential, my family's expectations, and my fear of falling apart over it. In turn, I was the one he talked to about being tired of being seen as one-dimensional, like no one ever believed he's more than a brainless jock who loves to party; I think I'm the only one who ever listened to him when he spiraled like that, even over Keane, and we didn't expect anything from each other.

          We dared to be vulnerable around each other, and for what? That's what I hate the most about losing all my friends (and it's all my fault); I've given these people parts of me I can't ever get back and, in return, they've given me the same. I'm a cluster of mixed pieces that don't fit together, gaping wounds that won't heal. I did all of that willingly, and it came back to bite me.

          These fake ghosts aren't those people. Those people—Keane, Jeff—are very much real, and they're the ones doing the haunting. Not a day goes by without them crossing my mind, both of them for different reasons, and that's without mentioning Andy and the scars he left behind. I don't need to believe in ghosts when people are good enough at haunting me on a daily basis.

          "So, if you're Lucinda, turn the light off," I ask, lowering my legs. The flashlight remains lit, flickering just so. "Go on . . . believe in yourself. You can do it." Like a sigh, the light finally dims, leaving me alone in the dark. It was hesitant, a fluke. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Isn't it annoying when people tell you that? Believe in yourself, like it solves all your problems. I spent years believing in myself and look at where that got me." I shake my head, just now realizing how ridiculous this whole situation is—I'm having a heart to heart with a ghost that isn't even here. "If you're here, I can imagine how fed up you are of being stuck in this place because you never got to move on. No one lets you rest in peace. No one lets you breathe."

          If anyone had told me a month ago I'd be empathizing with a ghost I don't believe in, I would have laughed. Now, I'm sitting by myself on a large stage, in the dark, watching a flashlight flicker on and off almost on demand.

          I don't know why this feels strangely therapeutic, but it does. Even though I got insulted by Lucinda's ghost and the spirit box, I still feel bad for her and what was done to her. She was barely older than I am right now when someone murdered her, either out of jealousy or in a fit of rage, and I don't think there's anything she could have done to justify her fate. She should have gone on and followed her dreams instead of having everything be ripped away from her in a fraction of a second.

          "Anyway, you're not great company, but neither am I, so I think we're done here," I say, hopping off the stage. I land swiftly on two feet, not even losing my balance. What a professional. "I don't know if I should say goodbye, but . . . yeah. Next time, we'll bring an Ouija board, or something. I don't like the sound of my own voice that much to sit here talking to myself for hours."

          Outside, I let out a frustrated breath, glad I'm no longer trapped inside the Boulevard. Keane is waiting for me by the cars, a clear display of bravery coming from yours truly—I did, after all, refuse to get into a car the whole summer—and watches me expectantly. The EMF meter has returned to a steady green light, effectively summarizing my investigation: absolutely nothing concrete.

          There's a glint to his eyes, hopeful, and it breaks my heart to deliver the news. I almost feel bad for it.

          "So? How did it go?" he asks.

          I shrug. "Same old, same old. The EMF had a few spikes here and there, but guess what? There are exposed wires by the stage." His eyes widen. "The flashlight turned on and off, but it was mostly just flickering. It didn't shut off out of nowhere, or anything of the sort. Nothing on the cameras that I could see."

          "Nothing yet," he corrects, almost to himself. His belief remains unshaken, irritating. "Thanks for coming back."

          "I'd have to come back for the car."

          "You could have refused to go in, write it off as bullshit."

          I open my mouth to reply, then hesitate. Yes, I suppose I could have turned my back on him and refused to partake in this idiocy, but I still went with it—and I suspect it's not just because of the senior project. I owe it to him—I hate it, I do—and there's something about the hope in his face that feels like a pat in the back for not changing my mind.

          There was a time in my life when I'd break myself into however pieces it took to make me smile. There was a time when he convinced me he didn't need me to do that, that just being with him was enough. For a suspended moment in time, it was enough.

          "I felt a bit strange," I confess. "I think the age of the building shows and it contributed to the evidence we found, but I did feel that weight. It got hard to breathe in there." He nods, pensive. The warmth in his eyes isn't surprising. "I feel a bit uncomfortable. Ghosts, dead people . . . driving . . . It feels too much, too soon. I think I'm just tired, that's all."

          "I'm sorry. I would've stayed with you if—well, I didn't think you'd want me there."

          I shake my head, not wanting to drag the conversation even further. After my monologue inside, I don't feel confident in my ability to not start crying. "Can we just go home after you're done?"

          His hand, resting on my arm, drops. "Yeah. Of course. I'll be right back."

          I watch him go in, fully equipped, and find refuge in my car. At least he can't see me tearing up now.

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something something i never was ready so i watched you go