I pressed the headset to my ears and strained to hear my anthropology professor's voice over the scratchy staticky line. "Has it been worth all the trouble to go there and collect first-hand data?"

I smiled at his teasing. "Yes, Professor, it's been great. I've made a local contact and have been collecting an amazing amount of information from people he's introduced me to. I even have ideas for two follow-up papers I'd like to publish after my doctorate is done."

The sound of a full ensemble of gamelan musicians began to drift through the Internet cafe and I froze. Just as every time I'd heard it over the past two weeks, there were no speakers around and no live music being played.

I whipped around to scan the crowd for the young woman. I knew I'd catch another glimpse because she'd been dancing - literally - around me for days.

First came the music, then her.

But all I saw were people hunched over their keyboards staring into monitors or with headsets on like me having hushed conversations.

The music got louder, taking my heartbeat with it. Any second now I'd see - there she was!

Whether I was at the market, in a restaurant or trying to focus during a poorly-connected call with my PhD supervisor, the dancer was there weaving among people and objects.

But no one else paid her any mind. Like they couldn't see her. Like she was a ghost.

Twice she'd come close enough that I could smell the flowers decorating her headdress and hear the tinkling of the bells she wore.

I swiped a shaky hand over my forehead. "Professor I have to go."

Usually the girl disappeared after a minute, but this time the gamelan and tinkling bells haunted my steps as I stumbled home in the bright afternoon sun.

Pushing open the door to my rental, the smell of flowers was almost overpowering inside and the gamelan music almost deafening. The lone room that housed my rented bed, tiny table that served as my office, and kitchenette with a hot plate and sink were empty. The open bathroom door showed it too was empty.

As soon as I stepped inside the music stopped and the smell disappeared.

"I'm going crazy," I said and dropped heavily to my bed.

Laying back I fell into an uneasy sleep where the dancer spun through drifting clouds of smoke.

"Who are you?" I yelled.

She spun closer than ever before. Close enough I could see what I'd taken to be decorative makeup were actually bruises that marked every bit of exposed skin.

Horrified I covered my mouth with my hands. "What happened to you?"

She slowly stopped spinning and when she'd finally stopped she pointed to the corner of my room, directly beneath my bed.

"Please. Put me to rest."

There was a blinding flash and I jerked upright in my bed.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead and crossed to splash water on my face and neck.

The mirror reflected the bed. I shook my head. It was stress over my research. Bad food. The water. Bad water.

Anything but a ghost telling me where her mortal remains were buried.

The problem with being an academic is the insatiable curiosity to answer questions.

I gripped the edge of the sink, but I knew even before I crossed the room that as far-fetched and remote from hard factual data as it was, that I'd grab my tin plate and dig away at the earth floor just because I had to know.

Excitement raced through me at the first clunk of my plate on something hard.

"It could just be a stone," I told myself.

But when I looked closer, even my untrained eye picked out the peculiar look of human bone. I stopped digging immediately. This needed a professional touch.

A gentle wind sighed through the room followed by the receding sound of gamelan and tinkling bells. Just before they completely faded I thought I heard a faint "Thank you".

WORD COUNT: 725