Page 4 of Fed By Fear

Githany

The ghosts aren’t the only reason I don’t love to drink. When I’m drunk, I’m a blabberer. I can’t stop myself from correcting someone who’s speaking ill-informed on an area of my expertise. That’s how I ended up the medium-on-call for TAPIT, The Appalachian Paranormal Investigation Team.

The lead investigator, Edwin, and I met in an Irish pub on St. Patrick’s Day. We were both deep in our green beers and fought over the differences in the clairs. Clairvoyance, claircognizance, clairaudience, and clairsentience. In a nutshell—seeing dead people, knowing things about dead people, hearing dead people, and sensing dead people. There are a few subcategories that are less common and include smell and taste.

I once smelled smoke the entire time I was watching a theatre performance. It turned out years ago the theatre had burned down and a bunch of people died. That experience would be considered clairalience. Other than that or the occasional whiff of a dead person’s favorite cologne, I rarely smell paranormalthings.

Thankfully, I’ve never tasted anything paranormal. Clairgustance is a tricky one. You could taste the favorite vanilla cake with strawberry buttercream that the ghost had every birthday as a child, or you could taste the blood and saltwater that filled their mouth when they slipped, hit their face, fell off their boat, and drowned in the ocean. It’s rarely the cake version.

The TAPIT team are mostly non-psychics who desperately want to interact with the paranormal. Some ghost hunters have a catalyst, some event that launched them into their ghostly obsessions. Maybe they saw a dark entity at their grandma’s house as a child. Perhaps a loved one broke through from beyond the grave with a message. Hell, it could have been an experience with Bigfoot in a national park. Anything strange and unexplained. They are the type of people who become obsessed with finding answers.

Those who weren’t led to this side by an otherworldly experience of their own are often horror-film enthusiasts who think an encounter with the paranormal would be spooky and cool. Relying on cameras and audio tools to catch glimpses of shadows and ethereal voices. They’re led by their tech, not their intuition.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve told a scary story and their response was, “Man, I wish I could see a ghost!”

It’s exciting for them. But if they woke up with a wailing woman at the foot of their bed in the middle of the night, I doubt they would harbor such enthusiasm for the experience. I suppose ignorance is bliss.

People who have seen ghosts,reallyseen ghosts, don’t usually seek them out.

“It’s late, Edwin.” My tone is less than friendly. Blame it on the headache that’s been creeping in all night.

“I know it’s late, but there’s a kid here. We need your help.”

That sobers me. Children are the most vulnerable to the paranormal. They don’t know how to shield themselves from things that venture in from beyond. “Text me the address.”

This home doesn’t match most I’ve visited to investigate possible spirit activity. Old homes with multiple owners and tragic stories are commonly haunted. A beautiful, red-brick house with a flowerbed full of pansies and three rocking chairs on the porch doesn’t fit the bill. This is a newly developed neighborhood. The trees are all still tiny.

Edwin greets me at the front door. Grey hair curls out from beneath his trademark fedora. He’s an odd one in a lovable way. His experience with the paranormal began as a desperate attempt to reconnect with his wife who had passed unexpectedly. After deep-diving into the world of spirits, he developed a fascination with hauntings. He founded TAPIT with the hopes that helping others and gaining knowledge would lead him to an encounter with his dearly departed. Eight years of seeking before he recruited me. To my knowledge, he’s never been able to contact his wife.

Helping others seems to have filled the void for him as best it can. His smile is genuine when he sees me.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Of course. What are we dealing with?”

“Come, I’ll show you.” He ushers me inside. I’m instantly struck with gut-twisting nausea. Eyes watch me. Eyes that don’t belong to anyone in the room. Such dark,striking energy should have been detectable from outside the home. Which means it isn’t the house itself. It’s something inside.

Our team members, Randall and Vic, are already set up and filming. They post these encounters online hoping to get picked up for a TV series. I’ve already told them they’ll have to find a new psychic if the episodes gain too much traction. I am not a spotlight kind of girl.

Randall backs up to widen his shot. Vic slides her boom higher.

The homeowners are here. The mother sits at the dining table, her face taut, eyes tired. Her husband stands behind her, a hand laid protectively on her shoulder. His gaze is vacant, weary. In the woman’s lap sits a young girl, maybe three or four. Dark circles that do not belong on a child rim her blue eyes. Hauntings take their toll.

“This is Githany.” Edwin nods to me. “She has a gift for identifying the source of the activity.”

Gift is such a ridiculous word. As if anyone would gift the ability to see dead people and pick up on haunted relics.

Their gazes sweep over me. Familiar snips of judgment slide across their tired eyes before vanishing. I’m used to it. My appearance doesn’t exactly make me blend in. Then again, it wasn’t my goal to fit in when I tattooed my face and dyed the tips of my hair green.

“Bat.” The little girl points to my neck. The collar of my sweater is low, revealing the two-headed bat tattoo across my throat.

“That’s right.” I smile. I love bats. I’ve always thought they were adorable. Especially vampire bats with their cute little upturned noses.

“Why does it have two heads?” she asks.

“Eliana,” her mother tries to shush her. I don’t seemyself having children, though I do admire their candor. It pops into their head and flies straight out of their mouths.

“It’s supposed to represent the zodiac sign of the Gemini. Do you know your zodiac sign?”