Haunt Your Heart Out

Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Nat and I hadn’t lost our touch. From the perfect camera angles to the right lighting for the job, the plan to rig Emily’s Bridge for filming came together quickly. The crew wanted to amp up the spooky atmosphere for their big night, so we tugged out the fog machine the inn used for Stowe’s annual Hallows’ Eve event and fired it up to test it in the cold. Spooky tendrils of smoke curled from the mouth of the machine and crept low against the snow and gravel like cats slinking on nimble feet. It played against the icy build-up and snowbanks before dissipating. Julian pressed his fists against his hips and nodded, scanning the scene.

“Will it work?” I asked.

“Absolutely, now that’s what I call ambience. Here, check out the cameras.” Julian pointed toward the bridge, where a camera was tucked in a corner so carefully even I couldn’t pick it out. “A couple more like that, we’ve got all the angles we need. We’ll have the single camera guy on the ground getting a bit of the action down here. It’ll be perfect.”

“So where do you stand on all of this ghost business?” Natalie asked. “Hauntings: Real or fake?” If I had been close enough to pinch her, I would have. She was treading way too close to “secrets” territory moments before we tried to pull off a hoax in front of haunting pros, and I was only days away from the loan decision from coming through.

Julian squinted as he thought. “I don’t believe I am reason enough for any spirit to choose to appear.”

Natalie tilted her head. “Solid answer.”

“What next?” I asked, desperate to change the subject.

“Showtime.” Julian waved jazz hands and grinned.

Showtime was nine, when it was dark enough that the stories we were spinning would feel more believable. After night swallowed up the woods, the paranormal seemed more, well, possibly normal. What looked like a broken tree branch in full daylight morphed into a hint of something creepy as the sun set—but by full dark, that same branch turned into nightmare fuel. Dancing lantern light added to the horror as it played against each bent branch or snowbank to turn it into something worth worrying about, again and again until the sun began to peek over the mountaintop.

The people who lived on the road often complained about the “ruckus” caused by people playing around at the bridge. “Ghost hunters” shouting and squealing their tires inside the bridge when something just the other side of ordinary tingled in spines, creating the sensation of someone tapping you on the shoulder or breathing down your neck.

Natalie and I—along with her brother Derick, and his friends—had taken it upon ourselves to scare off the adventure seekers by giving them something to be afraid of. Usually, it was Derick in the rafters, dangling buttons tied to fish line onto unsuspecting visitors to illicit shrieks of terror and clumsy scurries to car doors, or letting strands of ball chain drag across the tops of sedans for a nails-on-chalkboard sound that always earned terrified shouts.

Our new plan of action was more nuanced than in the early days, due to keeping it hush-hush so James and Julian didn’t find out.

After dropping out of college, in an attempt at willing my depression away by busying myself with anything I could, I’d thought about reviving the vlog. But I’d lost the drive. Instead, I pored over a book on the psychology of human fear—and how fear can lie if the circumstances are correct. That’s why the smaller touches usually had the biggest impact: the gasps, a flicker of light, a scraping rather than a banging. The only thing scarier than the fear of being alone was the fear of not being alone, and that was a mindfuck in the truest form.

Julian’s method wasn’t much different: He’d lull the tourists into a false sense of security with larger-than-life stories that were too unbelievable to be true—but creepy enough that they were difficult to shrug off as tall tales.

We drove back to the tree farm parking lot, which Natalie’s dad had given us permission to use as a meet-up location for the ghost tour. James and Julian had rounded up plenty of people to get the best reactions for ideal film splicing. I knew nothing about the process, so I had to take his word for it.

As we pulled in, James squeezed my hand on top of my knee and took a shaky breath.

“You going to make it, there? The fun hasn’t even begun,” Julian said.

“This is a bit more involved than our usual haunted wander.”

“You can wait here at the empty tree farm all by yourself if you want. Though I bet a tree farm ghost would be worse than Emily. Nobody comes to visit here, like they visit the bridge. Poor, sad, angry ghost,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah. Hilarious.” He wrinkled his nose and narrowed his eyes as he reprimanded us for mocking him. “Got your hand warmers?”

I gripped the sides and jiggled the jacket, then nodded. “I should buy you a heated coat for Christmas,” I joked, then realized that its usefulness depended on a lot of things—namely his being in an area where a heated jacket made sense. If he moved to some other, warmer spooky locale for the next round of filming, a heated jacket would be overkill.

Julian, James, and I waited for the first tour group—as usual, tourists invited earlier in the day by Julian after he befriended them at the ski lodge and restaurants—who filtered in and shuffled around the parking lot until the show began. The lone camera guy gave the signal and Julian put on his showman face.

“Welcome to this haunted evening, I’m pleased you could join us as we uncover the secrets of this spooky location.” He clapped his hands once, then rubbed them together. “How many of you are from Stowe?”

My hand was the only one that went up.

“Ah, a local, I see. So pleased you could join us. The rest of you, thank you for taking time out of your visit to explore the paranormal with me. Some ground rules, before we start.” Julian listed the important information—stay with him to ensure no ghostly entanglement, no climbing, scaling, or otherwise misusing the location, and pretend the camera isn’t there. “Oh, and if you think you’ve been possessed, please remember that while I’m a professional, my expertise is in film, not exorcism. You signed a waiver releasing me from any possession-related liability.” The usual.

After the laughter—sincere with a hint of “what did I just sign up for”—Julian gave them all their last chance to back out. Nobody budged. The camera guy started filming, and Julian led the group along the stretch of dirt road toward the bridge.

“A little history lesson for you,” he said. “Emily’s Bridge was built in 1844. The supernatural record of this specific location begins after Emily’s untimely death, on this site in 1849.” He continued the tale, recounting Emily’s despair when her paramour didn’t arrive at the bridge for their elopement. He left out the part about the stories having originated sometime in the seventies.

“During the day, the area surrounding this bridge is generally calm. A serene, snowy scene with an occasional feeling of unease. After dark, however … well, if Emily is feeling restless tonight, you’ll get to experience what hundreds of visitors do every year. Moaning. Crying. Rattling.”

James grasped my hand as Julian continued to tick off the ghostly activity.

“Don’t worry.” I shoulder bumped him as we crunched our way toward the bridge. “I’ll protect you.”

James squeezed my hand in his. “Do not judge me if I yelp, gasp, or run away.”

“No judging, I swear it. You ready for this?”

He gulped as we rounded the last bend toward the bridge. Fog rolled out of the opening, creeping low and slow across the snow-covered road. The sky was a deep black except where the crescent moon and glinting stars shone. A perfect night for a ghost hunt.

The group huddled near Julian while he crept around the site. For the first few moments, we explored outside the bridge. The wind blew, leaving bare trees creaking and evergreens rustling. The breeze was stiff enough to send the last of the most stubborn autumn leaves tumbling from the branches, skittering across the dirt-and-snow road toward the opening of the bridge. Caught up in a mini tornado, they whirled at the mouth of the bridge, daring the group to step closer.

“It appears we have been invited in,” Julian said, taking advantage of serendipity and spreading his arms to encourage the group to follow him. All he had to do was warm them up. The haunting was inevitable. Natalie had seen to that, with her brother secretly tucked away in the trees, spying on the progress to remotely initiate scare tactics and build on the group’s gasps.

Julian crossed into the bridge, dragging a fingertip along the truss slowly, dramatically. “Greetings, Emily, we don’t wish to intrude. We want to say hello.” He pulled his fingers away from the wooden support and looked upward, toward the ceiling—where the cameras, mics, and speakers were carefully camouflaged.

An echoing whisper sounded at the end of the bridge, earning gasps from the attendees. James gripped my hand with both of his, linking his arm into mine.

“Protecting me ?” I asked.

“You said you wouldn’t pick on me,” he said.

“No,” I whispered back. “I said I wouldn’t judge you. Nothing about picking on you. But—”

A rattle sounded, and James and I both jumped. I tugged him closer. “I’m sorry I picked on you. Truce?”

“A little different on this side of things, huh?” he asked.

“What, holding fear rather than simply sharing it with an audience? Yeah, a little.”

Julian continued recounting the various versions of Emily’s story, punctuated by rattles, creaks, and thumps. Faster at times, which Julian attributed to angering her with false stories. Occasionally, melancholy whispers bounced around the interior, spreading from speaker to speaker unbeknownst to the visitors—or the tour guide. Those, Julian claimed, were Emily’s relief that her story was being shared, and with such an understanding group. His eyebrows pulled closer with each unexpected noise.

“Some claim to feel extreme cold. Some, the sensation of a fiery hand pressed against their cheeks or the back of their neck. For the most part, Emily wishes only to remind visitors that she lived. That she was though she is no more. Others, however, aren’t so lucky. The roof of a car scraped long and deep. Scratched flesh, damaged clothing, ghostly handprints left behind on jackets. The spirit, visible in the peripheral, stalking, creeping, following.”

The rattle of chains against the wooden floor sent a shriek through the group, which turned to nervous laughter and whispers. James and Julian exchanged a startled glance—neither knew that some of Derick’s friends had hidden themselves in strategic locations to help me pull this haunting off. A thrill shot through me at the collective gasps that cycled through the attendees. James and Julian wanted their guests to experience the rush of a haunting—and helping them catapulted me back in time. I’d missed this. Not enough to make it a career like they were, but the nostalgia felt like watching a favorite movie. Gleeful comfort.

A shriek from one of the tour-goers echoed through the woods, bouncing between the bridge and the snow-bent tree limbs. A wave of nervous chuckles swirled through the group, each person checking out their feelings internally, and collectively shaking off their fear. Part of me wondered how much of Emily’s story was perpetuated by late-night teenage pranks just like this. We hadn’t made her up, but we’d given her some staying power.

I pulled James even closer and squeezed our interlaced fingers. “I hope Julian understands that you’re the best friend on the face of the planet,” I said.

He shrugged. “The research part isn’t all bad. I get to meet some interesting folklorists, at least. Some of them are pretty. Makes up for the”—another rattle, another round of shouts, another flinch from James, another wide-eyed glance toward Julian—“creepy stuff.”

“Over there,” Julian gasped, pointing toward the fog. He recovered from the shock quicker than I’d expected, and the film kept rolling. “It’s time. Gather around, and I’ll explain these highly specialized paranormal investigation tools before we use them.”

He showed off his EMF reader and temperature gun, both of which were “sure” to prove the presence of a poltergeist. Nothing a little movie magic couldn’t manage: The hidden cameras and speakers all sent the little LED lights dancing across the display, giving a double-duty performance that surprised, spooked, and satisfied the ghost tour group—and, likewise, the tour hosts. The same questioning glances continued to crop up between Julian and James. The camera guy even peeked around his equipment for a moment, mouthing something vaguely like “what the hell was that?” before tucking himself away again behind the viewfinder.

“That was spectacular.” Julian’s echo bounced off snow-covered trees and through the bridge. “A bit more footage like that and we’re golden. Taking it all the way, the big screen!”

“Yay, hauntings,” James said, punching an unenthusiastic fist toward the onyx sky. He’d done an admirable job of keeping his cool, but his eyebrows arched higher with worry at each ghostly groan and creepy creak. “You weren’t kidding about this place being active.”

“Ghost stories don’t happen by accident, James,” I said playfully. “I’ve spent time getting to know them all, and I’m glad Emily came out to play tonight.”

“So, uh, are we good here?” James asked, fiddling with the flap on his coat pocket.

“Yeah, yeah, scaredy-cat. Let’s break down here, and I’ll grab some filler footage before we call it a night, just to make sure we’re good to go. Anyone in?”

James avoided making eye contact with Julian. The chicken. Though I did feel a little sympathetic, especially considering my secret role in the night’s events.

“As long as my name is in the credits beside some awesome job title, like Ghoulish Ghost Grabber, I’m completely at your service,” Natalie offered.

“I’ll have a word with the director about the credits. I’ve got a little sway and can make things happen,” Julian said. “Drinks first? Then back here for stills and ghostly diegetic sound effects?”

Natalie agreed, then joined me where I was looping some wires out of sight until we broke down the equipment. She slipped up beside me, linking her arm in mine. I squeezed her forearm with my gloved hand.

“He says they have almost all their planned tours finished. They squeezed this one in because it was too good to pass up, and they’ve been waiting for approval to film in a couple other spots—Dog-Eared included. He says they’re close, though.”

I closed my eyes and sucked the cold air through my nose to fill my lungs. “Then what?”

“Then what, what?” James asked, appearing beside me.

“Just talking about your big filmmaking debut,” Natalie covered smoothly, knowing I wasn’t willing to get into a discussion about feelings and futures. Especially not in fifteen-degree weather after I’d numbed my fingers setting up for his future on the road. “And what comes next for the project.”

“Ah, that. Well, we’ve got a bit of editing ahead of us still, but Julian’s been knocking most of it out as he films each location. These things never move quickly. The contest deadline is March, and after that, he pitches it to film festivals. If someone picks it up, that’s good news. If not, we beat on. Julian’s always ready to film something else if it means he could become an internet sensation.”

“And you?” I asked. “Are you looking for fame?”

“Nope.”

“Not even a little?”

“Not at all. He’s the one looking for praise and awards. I’m just trying to figure out what I want to do next week.”

“Not one for planning ahead, then?”

He slid his hands into his jacket pockets and shoved a snowball around with the toe of his boot. “My plan is to figure out what makes me want to plan ahead. Might be cooking. Might be trucking. It’s definitely not being a lawyer. The documentary isn’t my thing, either—but he needed a codirector, and the prize money is something I can’t pass up. Besides, I’m always wondering what’s hiding in the shadows waiting to spirit me away. I don’t understand wanting to be scared like that. Paying to have someone shout boo so you can scream to feel alive.”

So the pitching … and leaving … weren’t necessarily his next steps. Even if he and Julian did everything together. My heart lifted with the teensiest bit of hope.

“How far ahead do you plan?” I asked, equal parts joking and gentle prodding.

James laughed and slung an arm around my shoulders. “I am planning on taking someone home to warm up within the next five minutes.”

“I accept.” I grabbed him by the lapel and kissed him again, deeper, to hold on to the now and ignore the nagging at the back of my mind.