One Hundred Candles [2] by Mara Purnhagen

Jared said. “I need to earn a little money for something I’m working on.”
    Adam’s memorial, I thought. I didn’t say it aloud, though, because I didn’t know if it was public knowledge. We heard a faint buzzing sound, and Harris pulled out his cell phone. “My dad,” he said after he looked at the screen. “I have to take this. Back in a minute.”
    Harris left to take his call outside and Jared slid into the booth. “I saw you guys come in. I was thinking about the last time you were here.”
    “I thought about that, too.”
    A group of us, including my mom, Shane, Avery, Noah and Jared, had come here to try and contact Adam’s spirit. We weren’t sure what happened, but our equipment showed crazy readings before going dead, suggesting that we had contacted something.
    “Your mom was really great to me,” Jared continued. “Shane, too. They helped me out a lot.”
    “I’m glad to hear it. So…” I hesitated. “Are you really planning a memorial?”
    Jared smiled. “Yes. In fact, I want you to be the first person to see it.”
    I was surprised. “Me? Why not Avery?”
    “I want your reaction first. Then maybe you can tell me what Avery will think.”
    Harris returned to the booth and Jared stood up. “Back to the ovens,” he said. “See you guys later.”
    “Everything okay with your dad?” I asked Harris.
    He looked out of sorts, like he was mulling over bad news. “Uh, yeah. It’s just, he needs me back home soon. I’m sorry, I guess we have to cut our date short.”
    I should have felt more disappointed, but I didn’t. We ate our calzones, talked a little more and then he drove me home. As we stood on my front porch, I had a flashback of Noah dropping me off after the Masquerade Ball, the way he had simply said good-night and left. But Harris stood very close to me, our noses almost touching, and pulled me in for a kiss.
    “I’m sorry I have to go,” he said softly. “I’ll make it up to you.”
    “One more kiss and we’ll call it even,” I murmured back.
    He placed his hand on the back of my head and pulled me in.
    We were even.

nine
    Seventeen years of participating in paranormal investigations had taught me something that the average person probably didn’t know: ghosts loved stairs. Forget the cemetery or cellar or creepy, dilapidated barn. Nine times out of ten, people reported seeing full-body apparitions on staircases. These apparitions either stood at the very top, sadly looking downward, or descended gracefully a single slow step at a time, or simply stood there, one pale hand resting on the banister. They were often dressed in Victorian clothes, for some reason, and were either translucent-white or bright green or shadowy dark.
    “How many is this?” I asked Shane as I helped him unroll cable.
    “What makes you think I’ve been keeping track?”
    “Because you do stuff like that.”
    Shane laughed. “I guess.” He made sure the cable was off to the side, against the wall so it wouldn’t be conspicuous when we began filming. “I don’t know about stairway spirits. Too many to count. At least a few every year.”
    I followed Shane back to his pile of equipment and helped him go through the checklist Dad had prepared earlier. We’d been setting up for two hours and were ahead of schedule. The drive west to the historic mansion had taken less time than we had anticipated, and we’d been able to get right in. The owner wasn’t very talkative, just superstitious. She had inherited the property from a distant relative and heard enough local stories about it that she refused to live in the house until we could prove that she would be the only occupant. Dad was thrilled that someone actually wanted us to disprove ghosts rather than verify them. Of course, he used the term ghosts with a roll of his eyes. We often referred to energy that way simply because it was easier.
    Shane checked an item off his list. “Almost done,” he murmured. He looked over to the