Page 12 of Fed By Fear

“These are fraternity jackets.” One of them turns to show me the Greek letter patches embroidered on the back.

“Oh, so I was right.”

The leader, evidently, steps forward. “What the fuck did you say?” His attention is pulled toward the entrance as the gates are thrown wide. He gives me one final look before pulling his mask into place. “Goth bitch.”

“Ouch.” I feign a hand over my heart.

Randall and Vic are silent behind me. I get the feeling they were not in the popular crowd in college, or at any point in life. Anyone who prefers chasing ghosts over a career involving the living was probably a loner boner like myself.

“I like your costume,” Vic tells me with a small smile.

I nod, returning the pleasant expression. Randall and Vic are dressed as ghostbusters. I’m not actually wearing a costume. The cropped skeleton sweater, black skirt, and combat boots are all part of my daily attire. They just fit in better on Halloween.

“Are you picking anything up?” Randall asks, pointing his camera my way. We can’t film inside Reaper’s Playroom, but he’s determined to get enough footage for an episode by filming our before and afters.

The wedge-shaped crowd is being funneled through the front gates. We arrived early enough to get a decent spot in line. I can already see the massive green demon face that marks the entrance. Fog pours out of the plywood jaws. Walking through an oversized monster mouth to get inside a haunted house? Epically cheesy.

“It’s hard to tell,” I admit. “There’s a graveyard nearby.”

“Are there ghosts in it?”

I glance to my left. The veil is outrageously thin. Where there should be five to ten ghosts meandering between the headstones, there are actually closer to fifty. Maybe more. Sometimes they blend together.

“Yes.”

Vic tugs on Randall’s sleeve. “Zoom in on the graveyard.”

“I’m filming, but I can’t see anything.” Randall adjusts his camera.

“I wish I could see the ghosts.” Vic sighs wistfully.

People don’t really want to “see dead people.” They just think they do. I’ve seen them for twelve years now. I promise, it’s better without the sight.

I didn’t embrace my medium abilities until I was older. I tried to confide in my parents a few months after the incident. They told my doctor. He assured them the sightingswere due to a still-healing brain injury. One sustained when I had a seizure at a summer camp earlier that year. I was only thirteen. The last thing I remember was screaming my lungs out as the cabin lights flickered. The next time I woke up, the ghosts were visible. They’ve been a part of my life ever since.

I still saw them every day. I didn’t tell anyone again for years.

The doctors, my parents, even the TAPIT crew don’t know the whole truth. It’s not the seizure that caused the ghosts to manifest. It’s what gave me the seizure. What sent me running through the woods and into the arms of near death.

The game.

We played with something we shouldn’t have. Maybe we tapped into hell itself. I might never be sure.

My hands were still on the planchette when everything went wrong. It was like some awful gameshow prize. “Ding ding, congratulations! You are the lucky recipient of the ability to see the dead.”

My brain really did suffer some sort of injury. I’ve had more blackouts than I can count. Sometimes they last an hour, sometimes a week. They’re scary as fuck and most definitely something I should have gotten checked out by now.

Part of me worries if they look in my brain to find out what’s causing the blackouts, they might discover my secret. Can seeing dead people show up on a scan? They could find something else wrong, something even worse. A physical cause for the visual disturbances. What if they find out the truth and lock me up for insanity? It’s all possible. So I’ve never sought treatment.

All because of a stupid game.

There were fourteen girls in my cabin. I often wish I could go back and ask them what really happened. What did they see in those hours my mind has repressed? Did any of them end up with a freaky new talent? Asking questions, unfortunately, is not an option.

Every last one of them is in the ground.

Animal attacks, unexplained disappearances, mysterious deaths. One by one, everyone present that day fell six feet under. Everyone except me.

I can’t even begin to dissect that morbid bit of information. Survivor’s guilt. Best treated through denial, repression, instant ramen, and Japanese beer.