The Broken Clock is Right Thrice: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective #4

Chapter 20 - Why Do Ghosts Wear Clothes?

"The con always starts before the mark ever sits down."

~ Zandra

After re-watching the video a few more times, Sunglasses says, "I can't believe we caught this on video. Real evidence."

"To be fair, Carey Manor is supposed to be haunted. That's why it was exceptionally easy to call up the spirits," Zandra says. "You shouldn't be so surprised."

"Supposed to be?"

"Is haunted. I think we've cleared that up now," Zandra says. She motions to leave the phone booth, but Sunglasses isn't interested in going just yet.

"What do they look like when you see them?" Sunglasses says.

As common a question as the trick I just pulled with the planchette.

"It's not like how I see you, child. It's more of a feeling. If you walk into a room, and you feel the hair standing up on the back of your neck, it's like that," Zandra says.

"Do they wear clothes? Can you tell?"

"There's no need for clothes when you're dead, despite what you might see in a casket."

"So they're naked?"

"No, but they're not clothed, either. Creep," Zandra says and forces a cough into her sleeve to mask that last word.

Sunglasses mulls that for a moment while Zandra gathers the spirit board from the table.

There are good reasons I picked this exact table to dance this bullshit dance with the spirit board. Four legs. A linen to hide my feet under.

All it takes is a toe under one of the legs, or a knee up against the underside of the tabletop, to move a planchette. It's easier than it seems. A little wiggle is all it takes.

Why? Let's call it my version of "resetting assumptions." So long as ghosts are real, I'm in control.

"I'll play this back with some headphones on later. Maybe the video picked up some electronic voice phenomenon," Sunglasses says, holding up the smartphone.

Sounds thrilling. Have fun with that.

They leave Carey Manor and return to the white SUV, knowing they'll be back the next day to set up for the dinner party.

"The dinner party of the damned and despicable. I just can't decide which one I'm supposed to be," Zandra says inside the SUV as they pull away from one last glimpse at the eccentric lawn ornamentations.

"How many invitees are we up to?" Sunglasses says from the driver's seat.

"Eight. Melvin the beet juicer. Emile the Empath. Carter Cunningham, the gods' gift to Ukrainian chlamydia. The person in apartment 201. Hank, from the hotel lobby. Three weirdos who think beating the piss out of each other will lead to enlightenment," Zandra says.

Fuck, I could use a cigarette.

"So 10, counting you and I," Sunglasses says.

"Ten, yes. Ten ways to die by midnight," Zandra says and taps her fingers in succession on her knee.

"Well, OK, 10 it is," Sunglasses says. "Speaking of 10, I've got about as many stops to make before tomorrow to get ready. This is a dinner party, after all. The Carey estate doesn't provide anything other than the square footage."

"Fitting."

"You want to come along or should I drop you back at the hotel?"

Zandra rubs the spot between her eyebrows. This time, it's not for dramatic effect. Headaches let her know when it's been too long between cigarettes. She says, "I'll do fine at the hotel. I need to get ready for this. It's going to be quite a show."