Haunter 1: The Shadow of the Haunter

3. Words From the Other Side

One morning, I went out for a walk earlier than usual, not feeling like being around while Susan and Mike were at the Manor. Don't ask me why, the moment I got to the Quabbin, I didn't feel like sitting to listen to some music and just stare into nothingness, like I used to. I felt I needed to learn more about communicating with ghosts and all that, so I decided to watch some of what Trisha had called the pros.

I'd noticed that YouTube ghost hunters talked a lot about one Brandon Price, leader of a team called Haunters, like he was the grandfather of paranormal investigation, even over the Warrens and Hans Holzer. A quick search taught me that even though Haunters hadn't been among the pioneers of that particular TV niche, they already had nine seasons and counting. And they were considered the best of the best.

Before subscribing to the streaming platform that hosted all their seasons, I searched for anything about them on YouTube. Didn't find any episode for free, but I did find a ten-minute clip. That would do. I'd already watched so many ghost hunters, it took me a few minutes to see if the teams took their thing seriously or they were just clickbait clowns.

Only three minutes into the Haunters video, I was already snorting and grumbling.

Now I knew where the worst Youtubers had learned all their stupid clichés.

The four ghost hunters looked like one of the rock bands Mom listened to, all of them wearing black from head to toe, and a hot macho frontman: Brandon Price, creator, executive producer and lead investigator of the show. Anything else in your spare time, dear?

But no matter their looks, they actually behaved like teens on spring break.

Not only were these Haunters so loud, it was also plain to see some of the alleged evidence of paranormal activity was fake. They had a zillion static cams all over, plus the handheld cameras they carried around, yet most things happened off-camera. Not to mention a great deal of what they got was personal experiences, like being touched, hearing voices no mic captured, catching a glimpse of a shadow right outside the cam field, feeling cold spots their thermal cam didn't register.

At least, I had to give them they didn't fake objects flying around or smoky apparitions. No need. The faintest knock got three replays, and even though they played tough, calling out and provoking, the rockstars hightailed screaming like little girls from any distant noise. And these guys were crazy famous for this? Frigging clowns! I would've liked to see them spend a single night at the Manor.

"I ain't wasting a dime on you," I promised.

On my third week in the Manor, I decided I felt brave enough to take things one step further with my invisible roommates. I downloaded a free app, said to use the phone mic to detect ghostly sounds and turn them into words from a word bank, one at a time. It was a simpler, cheap version of the Ovilus, one of those crazy-expensive cutting-edge devices ghost hunters used.

I waited until Susan and Mike were gone for the day, mustered all the courage I might have, and went to the east parlor. Following the advice I'd found in some reviews of the app, I turned off the internet on my phone. Then, I sat on the couch under the window as usual.

I needed to breathe really deep and clear my throat before speaking, in the most natural and casual way I could manage.

"I'd like to try something," I said. "If any of you would like to talk to me, maybe you can use this." I pointed at my phone on the coffee table. "That's supposed to capture whatever sound you make and turn it into words that an electronic voice will say aloud, for me to hear it. Does anybody feel like trying?"

Silence. That complete, absolute silence that upset me more than the constant little noises. Then a voice came out of my phone, pushing me to the brink of a heart attack.