KEANE

          I can taste colors.

          My coffee tastes like mustard yellow—sunny, warm, a reminder that it's all that's keeping me afloat right now.

          I'm in dire need of sleep. I'm not stupid. I know I'm doing too much on too little sleep; I haven't slept in two days and had to get an Uber from campus to the Spirit Files office because I don't trust myself behind a wheel when I'm this tired and Paige won't drive. I wouldn't ask her to and had to come early to decorate the office, so it was good that she had a few more hours to mentally prepare herself.

          Ripley dropped her off along with coffee and baked goods, knowing we'd be here for a while. Pot, kettle, but she looked like she could use a power nap. Or five. If we're busy with our senior projects, Ripley somehow kicks it up a notch by taking up more work than she can realistically handle and convinces herself it's what generations of Ripleys want out of her.

          She and Jeff could definitely bond over being the youngest in a family of horrendously talented people who barely have time to pay attention to their own children. The difference is that Ripley wants to follow her family's legacy, whereas Jeff is one of the least musically inclined people I've ever met.

          "Are you sure you're okay to drive?" Paige asked her, a twinge of fear thickening her voice. Ripley noticed that, too, as she killed the engine. "You look exhausted."

          "Probably not," she admitted. "I can just hang out at a coffee shop, or something. Pump my body with copious amounts of caffeine."

          "You can stay," I told her. "We can make sure you stay out of frame and maybe you'll doze off on one of the couches."

          "They're comfortable," Paige added. "I've napped there."

          She looked at us, pondering, then stepped out of the car, in a much braver move than I possibly could muster. It's why she's been resting on the couch ever since, and it helps keep some of Paige's nerves at bay.

          If we can do our part to avoid a terrible accident, we will, and Ripley is well aware of Paige's driving anxiety. I've seen her on the brink of a panic attack over it, so it's good Ripley and I are on the same page.

          "Don't think you're off the hook," Paige warns me, curled up on her chair. Her sleeves are pulled over her hands, almost covering them fully, and she stirs to tuck her legs under her. "You can't tell her she needs to rest while you haven't been sleeping, either. You're lucky she's small."

          "I can take it. Ripley spent the summer sleeping for sixteen hours a day."

          It's a joke. It's meant to be lighthearted. Instead, Paige stiffly nods once.

          "Tell me if there's anything I can do to make this easier on you."

          "I'm serious. I'm fine."

          "Keane, no. Don't do this. Don't be the one to refuse to ask for help after telling me it was okay to do it. We're a team. You'll burn yourself out." Her hand gently squeezes my arm, sending a rush of heat across my nerves. "Lean on me."

          I can be many things on any given day, but I'm not a hypocrite. Most of the time.

          I can't drone on and on about how important it is for her to accept help and accept she deserves to be taken care of and then not believe the same for myself. She knows me better than anyone, so she knows I'm used to handling everything myself. As an only child to divorced parents, I learned to rely on no one but me.

          Hockey changed that. Even though I played a position that isolated me from the rest of the team, I was still one of them.

          And then I wasn't.

          "This week on Spirit Files, we look into the iconic and mysterious Paran Lighthouse as we search for an answer to the question: is it haunted?" I begin. Next to me, Paige scoffs, twirling a lock of hair around her index finger, and I can safely say her level of interest so far is minimal. It's not the most exciting case, but at least it won't be borderline traumatic. "Have you heard of this place before?"

          "I know it exists. I think I remember hearing something about a creepy keeper that disappeared into thin air like a century ago."

          "The one and only." I dramatically set down my manila folder on the desk harder than necessary, like I'm an attorney at court, and a handful of paper clips are blown aside. Although Paige scowls at this, it lacks the animosity from a few months back, which makes me wonder if O'Riley will notice it. They know we're dating, so . . . "We'll be talking about the keeper, yes, but there's more to it."

          She raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "These ghosts just keep getting lamer and lamer."

          "Please. This is a big case."

          "If you say that about every single case we cover, it stops being as impactful. You tried to convince me there was a haunted Taco Bell twenty minutes away, but it was just infested with raccoons. You know how much I despise raccoons."

          "They were very vocal."

          "So is the spirit box."

          I chuckle. Even she tries to hold back a smile. "Fair enough. The Paran Lighthouse, built in 1891, is perched on a rocky cliff above our very own Lake Paran, hence the creative name. It was meant to help vessels navigate the fog, but it was mostly abandoned ten years after its construction was finalized. It took a lot of effort and convincing to get it running again."

          "It's probably one of those things that should've remained nonoperational. It's overlooking a lake, not the coast, so people realized they didn't actually need it. Technology improved, Bennington started relying on railways. I took AP History."

          "Valid, but why did they bother to keep it running if it wasn't needed? And with just one person operating it at a time? Surely there were more important matters to spend resources on."

          A corner of her mouth twitches again, like I'm entertaining her. "You have a point."

          "Thanks. The curious thing about this lighthouse is that there's no recorded evidence of any supernatural activity prior to the keeper's mysterious disappearance. Maybe keeping it open and functional was a way of keeping his memory alive and, hopefully, to figure out what happened that night."

          Paul Rotterfield, the disappearing keeper, was a former carpenter, described by the locals as 'quiet and secluded, yet oddly polite', and he seemed like the perfect guy for the job. According to town records, he took the job when no one else wanted it, after his predecessor retired due to, quote, 'sleeplessness' and, quote, 'the presence of strange noises during the night'.

          Paige sighs. "This is a lighthouse. Lake Paran is very windy. What was that guy expecting? A light breeze and birds chirping around him like a Disney princess?"

          Rotterfield took it upon himself to take extensive notes about everything—the weather, the water level. There was nothing he wouldn't write down, which makes his disappearance even more alarming ("if you're going to say he ghosted, I'm leaving," Paige threatens) after he cut himself off mid-sentence, like he was interrupted.

          She takes a long sip. "Maybe he got distracted."

          "With his track record? Doubtful. He maintained the place solo for years, never missed a day. His logs were always super detailed"—I hand her printed copies of the yellow, worn out pages and make a mental note to include them in the video in post—"and he'd always finish a paragraph before taking a break. See the ink blots from when he'd set his pen down and then picked it back up?" She examines the entries, about as interested as she would be in watching grass grow. "Care to read his final entry?"

          "'The water gives, but it also takes. The wind carries the—'."

          "That was it. No one saw him after that; there were no signs of struggle and the door was locked from the inside. It was like he walked into the fog and vanished."

          "Maybe he got bored. Being a lighthouse keeper sounds like a drag. He was probably feeling lonely and was too proud to quit. He figured that turning himself into a mystery would be far more interesting than handing in a resignation letter. Becoming an urban legend would drive traffic, create a buzz; it would be good for business."

          "You're relentless with your skepticism."

          Paige bows her head, raising her cup at the camera. "I live to entertain."

          I love her so much.

          I reach into the folder and pull out a photograph—black and white, slightly warped at the edges. The lighthouse stands tall, watching over the lake like a silent protector, enveloped in a thick layer of fog around the base. The lens at the top is distinctly bright against the dark gray skies . . . and there was no electricity running, no keeper taking care of it.

          In 1956, two hikers approached the lighthouse, which, at that point, had only opened its doors twice in over thirty years. That night, the doors were sealed shut, no light coming from inside, and they swore they could hear heavy footsteps, so loud they overpowered the wind. They said it sounded like, quote, 'someone walking up the stairs'.

          In 1989, a group of college-aged ghost hunters like ourselves (she groans) decided to explore the area, naturally fascinated by the ghost stories. They even had equipment, although it wasn't as technologically sophisticated as we have in the present—

          "No spirit box? What a dream."

          —but what they had was enough to capture some evidence. They recorded a low-frequency buzzing sound, mechanical like a drone. There are no buildings nearby, and all engines from the cars were turned off. The buzzing eventually turned higher in pitch, which left some of them violently nauseous and complaining about crippling migraines.

          "I'll play it now. Viewer discretion is advised. We won't be held responsible for any consequences"

          "Professor O'Riley, I'm so sorry in advance. My partner is too invested in this."

          I play the audio recording. Neither of us complains or collapses, but Paige shoots Ripley a concerned look over her shoulder. Ripley stirs on the couch, arms crossed over her chest, knees folded, and remains asleep.

          In 1997, a storm chaser—

          "Please say it's Glen Powell," Paige begs, with a pout.

          I laugh. "What, am I not good enough for you?"

          "Oh, shush. Of course."

          —got footage of a lit up lens room (I show her the photo, another one I'll edit in). The light flickered like it was trying to signal something. Remember—no one has been maintaining the place above the bare minimum. It's kept functional during the day for visitors, but there's no power and it's locked after nightfall.

          Then, I hand her my pièce de résistance. She won't be nearly as convinced as I am, but it's always worth a shot. Maybe someday I'll be able to convince her of the existence of the supernatural.

          Hearing footsteps coming from inside, on the stairs? What the hell, sure. A trail of boot marks leading up to the door, left on the snow, and never away from it? Weird, but potentially explainable; I don't think ghosts are heavy or corporeal enough to leave those marks. Even I have my limits.

          "What exactly am I looking at here?" Paige asks, squinting.

          "That's drone footage from last year. There's a silhouette pacing on the catwalk." I point her to the distinctively humanoid figure on the screenshot. "Here, I'll play the video."

          She watches it quietly, while I'm all but jumping on my seat with anticipation, both over her reaction and the audience's (O'Riley, occasionally Jeff). The silhouette walks around with slow, deliberate steps, and the catwalk even creaks.

          It's drone footage. Whoever was controlling it was outside and the door was firmly locked, as confirmed by the explorers beforehand.

          "You have to admit it's weird," I insist. Almost beg. "There was no one inside. That looks like a person. To this day, people still see flickering lights even when the power should be cut—"

          "You do realize that's technologically impossible."

          "Not if you're a ghost."

          Paige lets out a pained sigh, pinching her nose bridge. "Or an odd reflection. I don't know."

          "So you admit it could be a ghost."

          "No." Her voice comes out louder than intended and we both go still, looking back at Ripley. She doesn't budge. "I mean, no, I'm not saying it could be a ghost. It's definitely weird, I'll give it that, but there are dozens of explanations that would make logical sense."

          "Such as?"

          Paige groans. "I don't know. I'm not an expert on physics. I'm here to look pretty and debunk your theories. And I'm succeeding."

          I lean forward, resting my crossed arms on the desk. "I know we've seen our fair share of explainable stuff. Most of it could be attributed to faulty wiring, churches that echo, or malfunctioning pianos." Her lips twist at the mention of Hollow Manor. "A library might be just a library. Even the validity of the spirit box can be questioned. Sometimes it'll spew out relevant stuff, but, according to you, it's a coincidence. Even when it said leader and Kenneth at Stellarville."

          "Can't convince me it wasn't Scott messing with it somehow."

          The use of his actual name doesn't go by unnoticed, but it's not something I want to bring attention to while the cameras are rolling. It's a private thing, more theirs than mine, but I'm ecstatic that they're finally patching things up.

          Thank you, Daphne.

          "Sometimes it might be just the wind. Sometimes it's the hall of mirrors behaving like one. Sometimes it's rabid raccoons, rattlesnakes, or squatters."

          "You know I think this is just a bunch of baloney. All these supposedly haunted places are always debunked. Gas leaks, wiring issues, wildlife, the weather. I don't see why this place is any different."

          "Because none of this adds up. The tower is sealed shut, yet there were footsteps leading up to the entrance and sounds coming from inside. Lights when the electricity was shut off—"

          "Supposedly shut off."

          "—the very human-looking silhouette on the catwalk. The guy who vanished without a trace, no signs of struggle. Door locked. Come on, now."

          "The wind. Gravity. He was a sickly old man, was he not? Those stairs were probably not that sturdy."

          "He wouldn't have vanished into thin air for a logical, scientific reason. The door was—"

          "—locked from the inside." She huffs. "I know."

          She tilts her head at me, like she's actually pondering my words. It's one of my favorite things about her, how firm in her beliefs she is, even when she uses it against me. Sometimes it's to her detriment, such as her refusal that other people are grieving Andy in a deep way or when she gets too far up her own head, but she's always thinking hard about things.

          She doesn't let things go. She dissects everything. Queen of grudges, and all.

          "I think it might be worth it checking it out," she eventually says. I fist pump the air in celebration and she sets a hand on my arm. "Easy, cowboy. I'm not saying I believe it's haunted. However, if this ends up with us getting frostbite only for nothing to happen except for you getting spooked over a moth flying in front of a camera or the spirit box saying something borderline offensive, I might bring back my promise from Stellarville. I will kill you."

          "I'll treat you to good quality takeout if we find something. We can get those dumplings you like."

          Paige chuckles, leaning her cheek against her hand. "It took a ghost hunting show for you to finally take me out on a date?"

          I grin. "You think I need an excuse?"

          "I think I'm slightly better company than the ghosts. Who wouldn't love a romantic dinner at a so-called haunted location? Instead of candles, we'll have night vision lights."

          "Technically not a thing, but okay. Instead of music, we'll have the spirit box."

          "If you guys are just going to flirt with each other in front of the cameras instead of actually looking for ghosts, I hope O'Riley fails you both," Ripley deadpans, voice groggy from having just woken up from her nap.

          Paige turns on her seat. "Jealous?"

          "Ah, yes. Leave it to me to be jealous of the heterosexuals."

          I'll delete this last part in post, but it's still something Paige and I will laugh at once we edit the footage. It's a team responsibility now, something we both look forward to doing together, and part of me thinks she'd think it's funny. Though she tries to hide it, lips pursed, I can tell she's mildly amused.

          I don't want a ghost third-wheeling our date, that's for sure.

          This case does feel different. And I'm ready to figure out why.

✦⋆𓆩✧𓆪⋆✦

he'd probably be into knowing a ghost was watching him and paige make out. freak