Sunday
at the
Oxford
Paranormal
Institute

Chapter 1

They can’t scare me, but the people upstairs never tire of trying. Blackout material and gaffer tape have sealed off every source of light in the basement of the abandoned farmhouse. All I see are two blinking red lights on the remotely operated night-vision cameras: one close-up on my face, the other a long shot of my body.

Connecticut shouldn’t be this hot in late October. Upstairs must be stifling, but here in the cellar it’s bone cold and dank. I shiver in the tank top and shorts I was ordered to change into before being led down the warped stairs. The cane chair creaks when I shift. I’ve lost track of time, but enough has passed that my legs have gone numb. The smell of Thai food and weed drifts in from above. My stomach growls.

I’m not scared.

I’m furious.

“How long are you going to make me sit here?” I yell to the beams.

“Until you give me something I can use,” is the muffled reply. “Make it believable.”

I picture Les, director of Paradigm Network’s reality show, Ghosts Among Us, sitting smugly in his director’s chair, shoveling Skittles into his mouth. He and the bored, parched crew surrounding him have been watching me on a grainy monitor all afternoon as I stare into the dark, defying his demand that I pretend something’s there.

Someone in the crew mumbles about batteries and memory cards.

“Dammit, Sunday. Do SOMETHING!” Les shouts.

If the person who is supposed to be sitting in this chair were here, we’d be breaking down the set by now. In each episode, Candace creeps around whatever spooky old place we’re filming in, clutching at walls and shrieking on cue. She’s good at their game. Better than I ever could be. But she called in sick, and I’m the only one who fits the costume.

“Costume” is debatable: Daisy Dukes and a cropped Ghosts Among Us T-shirt. “Fit” is also debatable. I’m at least four inches shorter than Candace and a solid twenty pounds heavier. Remembering I’m on camera, I pull at the shorts’ hems and sit up straighter.

Another outburst from upstairs startles me. “No one leaves until Sunday decides to do her goddamned job,” Les says.

A chorus of groans from the crew.

“Sunday…please,” the assistant director, Sam, pleads.

He wants peace. The crew wants lunch. I just want out. We all know that no one is getting what they want until Les gets his ghost.

A master’s in journalism, and the only job I could get is on a show that lies to people.

I scrunch my eyes closed and furrow my brow.

“Why are you making that face?” Les calls.

“I’m summoning spirits.”

“Well, stop. It looks like you’re pushing something out of that uptight ass of yours.”

I close my eyes tighter.

Candace has a technique of muttering indistinctly to appear entranced. She admits to running through the alphabet in a rapid loop, but I choose another option:

“EveryonehastopaytheireduesEveryonehastopaytheirduesEveryonehasto—”

“Sunday,” Sam says. “We can hear what you’re saying.”

Out of ideas, I flick my eyes open.

“Let’s try this.” Les’s voice is tight with forced patience. “Tell me it’s suddenly gotten cold.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m the director. Stop fucking around. Tell me you feel a chill.”

My words come out with all the sincerity of an automated recording. “I feel a chill.”

“Good. Good.” He sounds like he’s talking to a four-year-old. “Now tell me you feel a presence.”

“I feel a presence.”

“Great. Do that again without the sarcasm.”

“I feel a presence.”

“Perfect. Now say—”

I don’t hear him finish because my head whips toward a sound in the dark. A rustle. High-pitched chatter. Something grazing my ear.

A piercing scream erupts from me. My mic pack clunks to the floor as the chair topples. I trip over a power cord, and one of the tripods collapses as I try to catch myself on it.

Les’s voice cuts through the crew’s laughter and applause. “See? Isn’t it easier to just do what I tell you?”

It is. And it’s put me right where he wants me…

…until I can find a way out.