Page 9 of Shake Your Boo Thang

I dim the room’s lights low enough so I can see but dark enough to potentially make the spirits more inclined to come out and play. Sitting on the floor, I close my eyes and wait.

After about thirty minutes with no real activity, I start getting antsy. Patience has never been one of my strong suits.

Taking my mobile and the EMF reader, I get up and start a sweep of the building. Moving systematically from room to room, I monitor the device but don’t notice any inconsistencies. I’ve managed to cover most of the building and am on my way back to the studio when I hear a faint knocking sound coming from one of the locker rooms.

My pulse ratchets up, and my grip on the EMF reader tightens. Quietly, I move toward the room’s door. The EMF’s gauge starts fluttering, and I have to swallow hard as I push open the door.

The locker room is dark, so I turn on my mobile’s flashlight.

I nearly jump when I hear the noise again—three distinct knocks.

A chill races up my spine, and all the hairs on my body rise as my EMF gauge starts going haywire.

I whirl around and⁠—

“Fuck!”

I drop my mobile and gape at the ghostly apparition glowing in front of me.

My mind flashes back on the first time I saw a ghost, right after I almost died.

I shove the memory away.

Cautiously, with one eye on the ghost, I reach down and pick up my mobile, gripping it tight. My breath comes out in rapid gasps and I realize I’m nearly hyperventilating, so I force myself to focus on regulating my breathing as I study the entity as ExorSquad would call it.

He’s a young man in his mid- to late twenties, sporting a hairstyle and mustache that hearkens back to images I’ve seen from the 1970s. His open V-neck shirt and bell-bottoms also suggest that time period.

I watch in mute horror as his mouth opens and he moves his lips.

Fuck if I know what he’s saying. I can’t hear a bloody thing.

“Look, mate,” I say. “I can’t hear you at all. I don’t know what you want, and I don’t know why you’re here. But you’d be doing me a favor if you’d just bugger off. You’re bad for my client’s business.”

The ghost stares through me as if I’m not here and I begin to question my life choices.

Why am I trying to talk to a ghost? Why the hell did I sign up for this job?

And fuck. I should have brought that spirit zapper thingamajig with me.

Sure, I might be able to see ghosts now, but that’s it. I don’t have any other special kind of mojo that I’m aware of, and if I can’t communicate with them, I don’t know how the hell I can get them to fuck off.

And, of course, I also left my supposed spirit trap device back in the studio, so that’s a no-go.

I’m stood there without a fucking clue what to do, like some eejit with his thumb up his arse, when all of a sudden the locker room door bursts open and the light turns on.

My heart nearly leaps out of my chest.

“Who’s there?” I yell, automatically reaching for the baton I no longer carry. “Fuck!” I mutter under my breath.

I’m expecting another fucking ghost. What I get instead is a man, younger than me, rounding the corner of the bank of lockers, and I have to blink for a moment as I take him all in. My very first thought is that he’s a rather odd duck.

He’s tall and lean, dressed in a pair of gray trousers with rainbow suspenders and a peach-colored dress shirt that’s fastened at the neck with a matching rainbow bow tie. A small earring dangles from his right ear, and his sandy blond hair is messy and wild, like he’s become statically charged or something.

His face and those bright green eyes are downright beautiful though. Like one of those old Greek Adonis paintings.

“Who the fuck are you, and how the hell did you get in here?” I demand.

“My apologies, sir,” he says in a strange American accent. “I’m Beau Montgomery, and to put it simply, I was drawn to this building. The spiritual activity in here is quite strong, even from outside.” He gestures at the ghost still standing beside me. “And that fella right there is one of those spirits makin’ all that commotion.”