Page 5 of The Haunting of the Mountain

I snort at the robotic voice speaking through the ghost-hunting gadget Nell left me. Spirit Box? SB seven hundred ultraghost edition? I can’t remember what it is but it’s grating on my nerves with the constant static interspersed with what is apparently, a recipe for some kind of stew. I’m not quite sure what my lumberjack buddy is trying to communicate to me, but it’s clear that he’s a little hungry.

And so am I.

I’ve been at this for a few hours and there’s been no ghostly activity. At least there hasn’t been anything that I can attribute to ghosts. The scratching I hear at the far corner of the cabin is raccoons, rats, or mice. Possibly all of the above. The phantom cold spots are nothing more than wind leaking through this drafty cabin. And this Spirit Box? Overpriced technology.

“Mash… Mash,” the Spirit Box growls. “Freezer. In the freezer.”

I cover the speaker, providing a brief respite to my sanity as I ask my ghostly buddy, “Are you hungry? I’m sorry but my forte is ramen, mac and cheese, and microwaveable dinners.”

I uncover the speaker, the static filling my ears once again but there’s no response. After a few more minutes, I turn it off because I can’t take it anymore.

“Must have died of starvation,” I mutter to the camera I set up for the investigation. “I might too if I don’t eat something soon. I’ll try out the Ouija board once I’m done.”

I turn off the camera and then grab my flashlight. The interior is lit fairly well from the fire Nell and I were able to make in the wood stove. We only smoked ourselves out for a few minutes.

I navigate toward the lamp next to the well-worn leather couch and yank at the chain. I block the light with my arm, blinking as my eyes begin to readjust.

The cabin is surprisingly cozy for a serial killer or whatever the dude’s uncle does for a living out here. The furniture looks handmade. Maybe he’s a craftsman.

I grab my phone and a box of macaroni from my bag.

Nell: Any paranormal activity?

Kyla: Gastrointestinal, mostly.

Nell: ???

I attempt to clarify but the message fails to send. It’s not long until I switch the camera back on. The isolation is beginning to get to me but the camera makes it feel like I have someone else with me.

“And I’m back,” I say, walking around the kitchen as I monologue for a minute or two, explaining the intricacies of preparing boxed macaroni and cheese like I’m on some Food Network show. Haunted and Hungry? Ghostly Gastronomy? Yeah, probably wouldn’t make it out of a pilot episode, especially when each episode would be me inventing new ways to cook the same mac and cheese.

“Should we take a tour?” I ask, hearing nothing but deafening silence before gasping. “Did you hear that? I think the ghost wants to see the fridge. Unfortunately, there’s nothing but the basics and some leftovers. The freezer…” I mutter, cringing at the frosty air as I glance inside. “Is a different story.”

I poke at the frozen meat. “I think this might be where the dead bodies are stored,” I joke. Kinda.

“Interesting,” I mutter, eyeing the lone container that isn’t vacuum-packed meat. I plop it onto the counter, trying to open it one-handed as I angle the camera for the big reveal.

“Hold on,” I say, setting the camera down.

After a few more seconds of struggling I pry off the lid and… “Jackpot.” I know a dessert when I see one, and this one looks delicious.

“Look at that crust,” I say, aiming the camera at the large square of cobbler, golden and oozing with blueberries or blackberries or all of the above. I wonder if this is the legendary cobbler our Whispering Winds insider told us about.

“I’ll have to thank my lumberjack pal for the tip. This cobbler looks delicious.”

Thunder cracks and I jump as the lights flicker. Once my nerves settle, I point the camera toward the window. Rain lashes against the glass as the wind howls. The storm has been growing in intensity over the last couple of hours making everything moan and creak.

“It’s a dark and stormy night,” I tell the camera. “Perfect for ghost hunting, but even better for dessert.”

I turn on the oven, pop in the cobbler, and then sink into the couch. Tonight is going to be a good night.

The candles surroundingme flicker as my fingers rest lightly on the planchette. I thought they’d help set the mood, but there hasn’t been a peep from the lumberjack ghost since I started asking him questions. The planchette hasn’t budged, but my heart is hammering from this brutal storm. I’m not used to storms like this. I haven’t heard of mountain tornados, but I think one might be knocking on my door soon.

I glance back at the camera angled down at my hands. “Sorry, guys. I think our lumberjack must have fallen asleep for the night.”

This ghost has given me nothing, which was exactly what I expected, but I’d hope for a little bit of action.

“Maybe I should take out the Spirit Box again. He wasn’t too shy to talk earlier.”

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