Page 40 of An Inheritance of Monsters

“Yourhair, Juno, yourhair.” Crispy’s hair wasn’t looking much better, if we were being honest. “You can wear the hoodie, but take your hair down on camera.”

I stuffed my notebook and script in the backpack he practically threw at me, and raced after him with Sierra on my heels.

As soon as we stepped outside, the cold bit into me like thousands of tiny needle teeth. Wind gusted around us periodically as we made our way to the front gates of the manor.

I dropped my bag and yanked my hair out of its bun, raking my fingers through it and arranging it over my shoulder, before hiding my printed notes inside the pages of the Black Book.

Crispy had just finished setting up his camera and boom mic when I took my usual opening pose in front of Duskwood Manor, the Black Book cracked open with the notes showing only for me.

I cleared my throat, eyeing the swirling storm clouds overhead, reminded forcibly of the Void.

“Aaaaandaction.”

The green light on the front of his camcorder blinked. My ‘Mona Lisa’ smile, as Crispy called it, stretched across my lips.

“Welcome, spooks, to themosthaunted locationSpirit Squadhaseverhad the pleasure of investigating.” I looked at the manor over my shoulder, then back at the camera. “That’s right. We’re standing in front of Duskwood Manor, where five select groups of paranormal investigators received an invitation to stay for one month.”

We recorded several intros, and finally Crispy got me rolling on the historical material as I strode along the outside wall.

“Built in 1724, Duskwood Manor has endured three hundred years of stories of human sacrifice, murder, mysterious disappearances, and rumors that may be substantiated with fact.”

I went through all six pages three times, until Crispy was satisfied. At one point, Sierra had whipped my hair into a French braid to keep it from flying across my face as I spoke.

My throat was dry as dirt by the time noon came around.

I grabbed a bottle of water out of Crispy’s pack while he reviewed the current footage.

“The weather worked in our favor,” he said, sounding relieved. His shoulders were no longer pinched with anxiety. “It looks great as a backdrop, all those clouds against the manor—but hey, we should run down to the beach you found and film an intro next to the statue, just in case.”

I wasn’t about to protest. When we’d filmed overnight at Ravencrest Asylum, Crispy had made me film the intro no less than six times, standing in front of various objects of interest: the basement doors, the fire-gutted wing of Ward C, in one of the weed-choked gardens on the lawn, and in front of broken razor wire fences.

He was nothing if not dedicated to his craft. Possibly to an obsessive level.

Which meant I’d likely film the Duskwood intro by the statue the ghost had crawled into, and on top of a boulder, and also in the library—

“We should move, then.” Sierra’s voice was much more tense. Since she wasn’t on camera today, she’d left off the makeup and got to keep her own messy bun. “Rain’s going to come in soon.”

We trooped through the garden and followed the gravel path down to the beach. A strange sound reached my ears, almost blending with the wind: it almost sounded like singing.

Like a woman’s voice.

But no one else was around as we hurried downwards.

When we crossed beneath the stacked boulders, following the little tunnel, Crispy made a sound of disbelief.

“This one’s even creepier than the first one.”

He walked around it, already filming, and I looked out at the gray, crashing waves.

And the wisp of pale smoke bobbing along them.

The voice was stronger now, feminine and sweet. Calling for someone to follow.

I glanced at my crewmates, but neither of them seemed to hear it. Crispy was on his knees, filming the statue from its feet, and Sierra was scowling at the sky, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

How could they not hear it?

The wisp drew closer, resolving into a head, then shoulders and a torso, as a ghost struggled through the waves.

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