Speed Dating With the Dead by Scott Nicholson Page A

from 318,” Ann said. She was losing track of the haunted rooms.
    “He wanders from room to room. No need to worry about walls, right?”
    “I guess not,” Duncan said.
    “He has a sad energy. I’ve encountered ghosts that had post-traumatic stress disorder, and they usually don’t know what happened. This guy acts like he knew he made a choice and now he regrets it.”
    Ann bit her lip to keep from grinning. Tonya’s face was so earnest that Ann almost believed her, except the part where the guy was many years dead and she was talking about him like he’d just returned from a vacation.
    “Do you think he’ll come back around?” Ann said, pulling a Flip video camera from her breast pocket. “I would love to get some footage for my YouTube site.”
    Tonya narrowed her eyes. “You can’t see him. He’s an energy spirit. He doesn’t draw enough charge to become substance.”
    “Sort of like a battery that’s gone weak?” Duncan asked, trying to impose a plausible science.
    “You’ve heard of auras, right? The energy rings above people’s heads? It’s sort of like that.”
    “Cool,” Ann said. “Can you see them?”
    “I see them with both the living and the dead. That’s how I can tell their moods.”
    “What color is mine?”
    “Orange, the color of fire and passion.”
    Ann felt a small surge of pride, despite not believing a word of it.
    “What about me?” Duncan asked.
    “You’re a greenie. Earthbound and bright.”
    Ann couldn’t resist. “And the dead guy?”
    Tonya closed her eyes. “You’re not going to believe this.”
    You can say that again . Ann felt her flesh tighten as the room temperature dipped noticeably.
    “He’s here,” Tonya whispered.
    Duncan, who had sat on the bed, looked around the room. Ann found herself pulling out the pocket-sized video camera. “Where?”
    “Right behind you.”
    Ann’s heart skipped a beat despite her doubt. As she turned, she imagined a slow exhalation of breath drifting along the back of her neck. She wondered if she were beginning to suffer a peculiar version of Stockholm Syndrome, only as a willing hostage of the paranormal community. She was more than a hostage; she was a spy.
    Ann saw nothing but put her hand out. The air in front of her felt cold and her fingers tingled with a faint trickle of electricity.
    “His aura is gray,” Tonya whispered. “With a little bit of purple, like clouds at sundown.”
    “What’s he want?”
    “I can’t tell,” she responded. “I don’t think he knows.”
    “Come on, Ann,” Duncan said. “This is getting a little silly.”
    “Shh,” Ann said. She pressed the button on her Flip cam and held it in front of her. Perhaps Tonya’s hallucination was a bit of reflected streetlight or a prismatic effect from the bedside lamp. The cam also had an audio track so she could monitor Tonya’s remarks.
    “Can I talk to it?” Ann asked Tonya.
    “It’s a he,” she said. “You can try. But I don’t think he’ll stay long.”
    Ann had studied investigation techniques and knew some hunters took a provocative approach, on the belief that ghosts were like caged tigers and only needed to be poked a little to growl.
    “Why did you kill yourself?” she asked, the words coming out louder than she had intended.
    The heating system kicked on, the hum accompanied by a mild vibration in the floor. So much for a simple answer in English.
    “Maybe you should have it sing the ABC’s,” Duncan suggested.
    “The aura is changing,” Tonya said. “Now it’s like a dark cloud. ”
    Ann waved her hand at head height before her, imagining the aura dispersing like so much mist. The air before her was now frigid, despite the ventilation system pumping warm air into the room. A pungent aroma assailed her nostrils, as if a rat had died in the air duct and reached a ripe state of corruption.
    “Do you see anything?” Ann asked, intending the question for Duncan.
    Tonya answered. “The aura is getting