A Bountiful Garden

By Ian Dean

On one peculiar and terrifying night, the specters came to stay. Nearly two decades have passed since a strange aurora covered the world and brought millions of ghosts into the land of the living. Hunting, whispering, and efforts to keep the peace between those on both sides of the mortal coil has become a business, but not everyone agrees with how Central Specter Research—often callously—conducts its operations. Brendan Vinter, a guardian of a spectral girl named Neche, was forever changed by a traumatic childhood event that gave him the gift to send specters to the beyond with a single touch. Now a whisperer in Green Bay, a sudden offer tempts him to give CSR a chance. But the company is planning the next phase of spectral exploitation, and his unique secret places his own life at risk.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781794717114

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A Bountiful Garden

A Bountiful Garden

Ian Dean

Copyright © 2019 Ian Dean

A Bountiful Garden

eBook Edition - 2019

By Ian Dean

ISBN: 978-1-79471-711-4

No part of this book, including its images, may be reproduced without written consent from the author.

This edition published using Lulu.com

Visit www.valice.net for more information about the author

A Bountiful Garden

Written by Ian Dean

Chapter Four

An Old Familiar Tune

Did I tell you yet that I played piano in the St. Louis Symphony for, oh… some odd years? Time… slips by so quickly now, the kind elderly woman told Brendan in the basement of her family home.

No, but I got the impression upstairs that there was someone gifted with music who lived in this household, the young man replied, with a patience that the house had not known for, also, some odd years.

"Yes… lived, she said with a sigh. Though I suppose it would hardly make much of a difference either way. She’d still want me out."

Were you and your daughter… um, closer once, Ms. Beckinridge?

Missus. Mrs. Beckinridge… I do still consider myself married to my husband, rest his soul—wherever it may be.

Brendan adjusted his glasses and replied, Right, of course.

She wandered over and swept her hand over the dusty cover of the antique piano, which must have proven a great challenge to move into the basement. Well, we all change over time. I don’t blame her for wanting me to leave, but I’m just… Oh, you must’ve heard a thousand reasons by now, for why someone hasn’t left. Maybe I’m simply scared…

Of what’s next, or leaving her alone? Being alone yourself?

Do you know anything? Could you tell me what it’s like?

Sorry. No one I’ve ever talked to has been there and back.

But I’m proof. We’re all proof, isn’t that right? That there’s more?

That’s what they say, these days… He pushed himself off the basement steps, his worn leather gloves crinkling as he did so. He stuck his hands into his jacket pockets, walked to the piano, and added, It took one day to change everything. I think we’ve already forgotten how profound it was, what it meant for us… Hard to remember the days before that one.

"Oh—oh, yes, but I think I was like this before then. Lisa just couldn’t hear me yet. Now she’s heard me far too much, for her liking."

I figured you’re a pre-gen. I can usually tell. You’ve been around.

The soft blue ghost, floating a few inches in the air, smiled.

"But I long for something… I want… something so badly again, but I’m afraid I can’t describe exactly what it is. I don’t even remember it…"

It’s okay. I can help with that.

All the other whisperers she’s sent down here told me that as well, but as kind as most of them were, they didn’t make me feel any different… Some made me feel like leaving, but… not ready to. Am I making sense?

Yes. Whisperers are supposed to be there to send you on your way with a kind voice, telling you that it’ll be okay. And sometimes, that works. That’s enough. But some ghosts need to really feel one last sense of human connection. One last, hm, touch of life. Getting to that point with words alone isn’t always easy. But I’m a little special.

You seem so, dear. Maybe you’ll be the one.

Maybe. But remember, it’s a two-way street. You’ve got to be ready. All I can do is give you a push. Still… I think you’ll be satisfied.

Mrs. Beckinridge looked him in the eye, nodded, and then changed her clothes. Like wind sweeping over a field of wheat, a faint shimmer of light ran down her nightgown, transforming it into an elegant dress befitting of one about to grace the ivories in front of thousands.

Then one last song, just in case.

Her spectral fingers playing through the piano cloth and depressing the white and black keys, she played a familiar classical melody. He knew of it; he had probably heard it a hundred times in his life. It was soothing, simple, and perfect. But he was not an aficionado of the classics, or music in general, and he couldn’t place the composer. Chopin, maybe?

Well… That’s enough, she said and stopped mid-stroke. Lisa may come storming down here if I continue.

That was amazing. You’re the first piano-playing ghost I’ve met.

It’s different. It’s not in the muscles anymore, since I have none. But to learn just how much to send to your fingers, the right pressure…

Are you ready, Mrs. Beckinridge?

Ah… Will this involve an hour of talking, like with the others?

No. Just take my hand… He raised his right up to her. Trust me.

She looked at it for a moment, and then raised and dropped a hand onto it. It passed through the glove, but then it stopped, unexpectedly. She could feel his palm, its tingling warmth. Something had been restored to her. He brought over his left hand and cupped hers between his.

Oh. Oh, my. She trembled and her eyes filled up with reflective light. "That’s marvelous. That… that is what I’ve missed… Thank you… I’m not afraid anymore. What… what was your name again?"

Brendan Vinter. Goodbye, Mrs. Beckinridge. It was nice to…

She was already gone. She had disintegrated and moved on quickly.

Should’ve asked her for the name of that song… he muttered to himself before he turned around and headed up the steps.

He got a last look of the basement where the old woman had spent at least two decades of her afterlife, and then went through the door. The basement was a cold and gray place, but it was where all the remaining kindness in the house seemed to be centered.

The woman’s daughter, herself eighty years old, had long ago turned bitter and callous. Brendan was fairly sure that she been that way for a while now; the death and haunting of her mother was not the sole cause of her current attitude. Still, he tried not to judge others too much, and would certainly never call someone out for how they acted.

Is she gone? Lisa asked sharply, with restrained excitement.

She was waiting for him in the wooden hallway leading to the basement door, which was filled with dusty and creaking floorboards.

Y-yes… She departed.

Evicted, you mean! Thank God. Oh, you had me worried for a second there when she started playing that godforsaken piano again! You’re not lyin’ to me, are ya? One of them other whisperers lied to me. Only chased her away for a day before she was back with her damned concertos.

"No, ma’am. She won’t be coming back. You have my business card. She won’t come back… But if she did, you can call me and I’ll be right over again, no charge. But she won’t be. Just ask any of my clients."

All right, all right, I trust you. How much was that again?

Two hundred dollars, for a full… eviction.

Good. A fair price for sleepless nights again. Is a check okay?

He nodded and followed the small and crotchety old lady into the living room where she looked for her checkbook. He looked around the glass shelves and an old desk, all filled with knick-knacks, and eventually spotted a lone portrait of her mother, buried behind some old cat figurines. She was much younger in the photograph, and quite beautiful.

Do you think you’ll miss her? he asked, regretting doing so already.

Miss her? I paid for her five years spent in a nursing home, cried at her funeral, said goodbye, and moved on. And then she came back!

The living room television, muted, had on an interview with the next popular postmortem celebrity. A murder victim, his gestures and the TV captions indicated that he was talking about where he had been stabbed, and how many times. The living interviewer asked for more details. It was another example of how the need for macabre entertainment had evolved with the times, and it was barely a surprise that she would be watching it.

Here, now please let me get back to my shows, she said, extending out a check that he quickly took. And she had better be gone.

Keep up that outlook, and maybe I’ll be seeing you again in a few years… Brendan murmured as soon as he had stepped outside of the house and arrived at the sidewalk, lit up in orange by a Halloween sunset.

His hands in his pockets again as a cold southerly wind blew across his face, he looked up and down the neighborhood, where the upper-middle class homes had always resided, just a few blocks from his own place. He counted the jack-o-lanterns, and the houses that put forth some actual effort into the holiday. Every year, the count was less.

This strange, changed world should have made days like Halloween or Day of the Dead celebrations even bigger or more festive, he had once thought. But it only made a major aspect of those holidays, the reverence of the deceased, a mundane and everyday thing. The few trick-or-treaters out and about were dressed up as monsters or super-heroes. The skeleton and ghost costumes didn’t sell much anymore, not since he was a kid himself.

He caught sight of a younger child in a Spiderman costume pointing outwardly at something, only to be tugged away by his mother as they walked. Brendan’s eyes went to where the child’s small finger had pointed, and he spotted Neche and her fellow specter and friend Terrence, who was around her age. It wasn’t unexpected that the child had singled them out amongst the small gathering of older phantoms in the nearby area, out and enjoying the evening. They were children. Young ghosts were rare.

There was an older ghost on a porch, watching trick-or-treaters go by. A watchful phantom stood at the top of a power pole, arms crossed as he observed his surroundings like a bird of prey. A gaggle of four teenage specters walked across the street and tried to scare a girl and her friends as they asked the people in the next house over for candy, but the kids were all unperturbed. Like Brendan, they saw them every day. There was no shock or wonder anymore. Tomorrow would be the first of November, and those who had any number of reasons for not moving on would still be there.

He noticed Lisa, looking through her curtains at the group of tweens. She made a disparaging expression, shook her head, and shut her drapes. Her house, unsurprisingly, had no decorations at all.

Neche, ready to go? Brendan asked her.

She looked up from her spot on the storm drain, where she and Terrence had been taking turns at deforming a soda can. She was a full-spectrum ghost and still had her colors, though they were milky. Her lack of saturation made it readily evident that she wasn’t alive, despite how lively she could be. Terrence, on the other hand, had a deep, sapphire blue sheen. With the low sun’s rays on them, they were more transparent than usual, though Neche’s black hair always shunned even the harshest light.

No trouble with that one, huh? she asked and got to her feet.

Nah, she was a nice old lady. Just needed a little push.

She began to follow him home, walking as opposed to floating—she had always seen the latter as unnatural in appearance. Terrence tailed them, copying Neche’s gait perfectly. He had picked up a lot from her since they first met, and while she didn’t mind much, it had been bugging Brendan for a while. It didn’t help that he often invited himself into their house as well.

Terrence, please stop following us… Brendan asked him, without looking back. Go home, would you?

Aw, let me just play a video game or two. I hate my house. Justin’s an ass and a total dork. He only lets me stay there as an experiment.

Brendan turned around as he walked to see the forever-ten boy keeping up with his arms behind his head as nonchalantly as possible.

Not tonight. Look, you’re lucky enough to have a home to go to at all. Get off the street before nightfall. You know they usually do sweeps on Halloween, Brendan reminded him and looked at a few of the ghosts out wandering for the evening. You want to get yourself caught?

We kind of have a tradition on Halloween of watching three scary movies, and we go to bed really late, Neche tried to tell him off kindly. And, um, well, you know you kind of talk a lot through movies.

Terrence stopped, looking offended. Fine. Whatever.

He flipped himself around and sulked home, a short distance away.

That kid needs some parenting…

Neche shrugged. Sorry. You know it’s tough finding others my age to hang out with… And he only became a ghost a few years ago.

After a mile, the sprawling Green Bay neighborhood transitioned into its lower wealth corner, known to be a site of moderate paranormal activity. Brendan’s small house, its chain-link falling apart and its lawn overgrown, was deceptive from the outside, mostly due to the fact that he rarely had or expected visitors—and he spent most of his time inside.

He stopped at the please take some candy bowl he had left out front, which had barely been disturbed. With the sky growing dark and the temperature dropping, he brought it in and locked the door.

The interior was an organized mess, but it wasn’t dirty; he didn’t tolerate grime or trash. The living room and home theater area was full of old furniture, including chairs covered with a few samples of his many coats and jackets. The coffee table hosted half-read or skimmed research and fiction books on spectral phenomena, many of which were under toys and souvenirs that would never be thrown away. One wall had a fifty-inch flat screen, the other a beat-up but beloved black leather couch, and pushed against the windows were two full shelves that held his father’s physical movie collection, over a thousand films in total.

You get to pick this year, Brendan reminded Neche as he removed his jacket and turned up the thermostat.

I know. I already did.

She drifted into the air and hovered in front of the shelves, where she used her strong and honed telekinetic abilities to yank at three of the blue and dusty cases from the alphabetized assortment. Without ever touching them with her fingers, she brought her selections over to Brendan as if to say ta-da! He read their titles as he removed his gloves.

"Dawn of the Dead. Great satire and social commentary, but again, not scary, he critiqued. The Thing… All right, always a good one, though I still say you’re too young for it, he continued, getting an eye roll in response. And, no big surprise, The Others. The one you always pick for the night."

"Hey, I like it, okay? It’s about the living haunting ghosts!"

Whoa, don’t spoil it for me. Why should I want to watch it now?

He rubbed the faint burn scars on his palms, put the bowl of candy in the fridge, and then walked over to his room to retrieve his tablet. Across from his door was the one to Neche’s room—barely ever opened.

Brendan… Neche spoke up from her spot on the floor, where she was sprawled out and staring at the ceiling. Does CSR really do sweeps on Halloween? I’ve never been outside past sunset to actually look.

They’ve been known to, he assured her as he turned on the television and set up the player. "It’s the second most active night for ghosts, so they sometimes hit entire neighborhoods, considering any that are out and about delinquents. If a van goes by and they saw that you were with me, you might be safe, but it’s better just to not take any chances."

Terrence says they’re cracking down on sympathizers in the bigger cities, even getting those warrant things to go into houses and clear them.

He’s just trying to scare you or spread rumors. That isn’t true. If I let you stay here, that makes you a resident. It even says so on your file.

My file… she murmured and scooted herself up against the couch after Brendan hit the play option on The Thing’s menu. An entire database of ghosts. I wonder what mine says… Have you ever seen it?

Uh, not yours exactly, but as a whisperer, I do have access. I know there isn’t much. Like… date of death, if already on record. Ethnicity. Some basic background information. Family… And, um, threat level.

"I know all that. I just wonder what’s on mine. What do you think my threat level is? How high’s it go? Oh, am I like, flaming black skull level?"

I doubt it. Most ghosts are ‘no concern’. I don’t think they have some magic way of telling how dangerous someone is, until they act out, he explained as the movie started and he settled in. Why do you ask?

Terrence mentioned that Justin was researching the levels recently.

It’s not really something to worry about. Some specters can get a bit ornery, but unless they’re a full-blown poltergeist, they’re nothing a half-decent whisperer can’t handle.

"Oh. So, are you half-decent now?" she asked rhetorically before turning her focus to the movie.

As was common, the two spoke casually every now and then about the flick as it progressed, never getting overly excited, and as it went on, they both talked less frequently. Eventually the thrill of Halloween movie night diminished some, and they fell into the same tempo they had the other dozen or so times they had watched any one of their favorites.

Brendan was soon on his tablet, rather mindlessly browsing the biggest and most information-rich ghost wiki, which he had edited a few times in the past—just about the extent of his social interaction with the online world. One of the most talked about and updated pages was the one that covered telekinesis. Long a theorized human ability in the realm of pseudoscience, it was now used to describe a specter’s ability to manipulate objects with touch, or in more potent spirits, entirely remotely.

Recently, the article had become an ever-growing collective trove of speculation on what Central Spectral Research was hoping to accomplish with their rumored telekinetic development division. It was assumed that a secretive section of the corporation had support from the government and was either looking deeper into how ghosts used it, what part it played in keeping a consciousness in a coherent form post-life, or how it changed when the convergence event occurred… and if the living could tap into it.

As Neche let out a little sardonic laugh in response to another of the movie’s gruesome deaths, he moved his screen and looked down at her, and wondered how much longer he should keep lying to her, and if any of what he was keeping a secret was actually doing anything for her safety. The increasing number of ghosts across the world in recent years had equated to political language that was more hostile, and a more militarized CSR.

Hours passed, and after a night of mutating aliens, mall-invading zombies, and a British family finding out that they were dead all along, the early hours of the morning had arrived. Neche’s glow wavered, and her eyes began to shut for seconds at a time—a holdover reaction from her living days. Regardless, she was tired, and needed her equivalent of sleep.

Three in the morning? she guessed.

Close. Looks like you’re ready to turn in.

Uh-huh… She drifted up and dragged herself like a meandering cloud to her bedroom door. Good Halloween… Fun, fun…

She passed through her door, with small electrostatic forks spreading across its surface as they trailed off and quickly petered out.

When Neche wasn’t awake or off wandering on her own, Brendan always suddenly entered a different, quieter, lonelier world. The house felt lifeless and empty, but it also gave him time to be mindful and take care of the essentials without wondering if she was behind his back.

He showered, watched a single episode of an anime on his room’s computer with a bowl of cereal, checked the news and latest movie reviews, and then checked his email. Unsurprisingly, the inbox was pretty empty, except for an update from his one remaining friend from high school.

Subject: Scored an interview!

Hey Brendan, guess who has a job interview tomorrow at our CSR branch? Might get a position in Research over in Chicago! Wish me luck bro. Specs will come to fear my new tech. Well, the bad ones at least.

Say hi to Neche for me.

~ Danny

Brendan considered writing a reply, but he decided to wait to hear about the results; Daniel probably wouldn’t check his email before he was on the road in a few hours anyway.

With a half-hour to go before his usual bedtime, he thought about what to occupy himself with for a few moments before deciding to check out the latest videos on SpecterLeaks. The video-sharing site was where the more disturbing ghost-related recordings typically ended up, many of which were too violent or horrifying for the mainstream websites.

Only in the most extreme cases did ghosts cause physical harm, but many of the more aggressive ones could create nightmarish scenes and events. Able to seemingly manipulate reality if powerful enough, specters were known to recreate crime scenes, induce panic attacks in their victims, or simply scream like banshees and wreak havoc in darkened houses by throwing objects or tearing apart walls and ceilings.

But more wrenching were the scenes of mental breakdowns, where even the most hardened of both freelance and corporate hunters could be reduced to a shivering, crying child as they suffered through inner horrors unseen to the camera, that left everything to the imagination. And as nearly everyone filmed their experiences, there was plenty of footage posted.

The crown jewel for those that wanted thrills to satisfy their morbid curiosity were recordings of poltergeists. The most feared, chaotic, and poorly understood specters consistently frightened.

As a freelance whisperer who didn’t have the backing or technology of a corporation of professionals, he took it upon himself to keep up to date on developments and incidents in the industry. But Brendan still wasn’t sure if watching poltergeist videos made him more prepared for a possible eventual encounter, or just made him want to quit.

He clicked on the latest upload, added five hours ago. It started out as most did: a recording from an eyewitness at the scene, as file footage of such events normally remained classified by CSR for years.

Someone was pointing their phone’s camera at the house across some street in Atlanta, where three unmarked armored vans were parked on the lawn. At first, the person filming stayed in their living room, looking through their window. Shortly after they commented that there had been strange occurrences at the house for weeks, they grew a little impatient and made the poor decision to go through their door and step outside.

Just seconds after they had left safety, flashes and loud bursts came from the other house’s windows, and then about half of its front wall exploded outward. The cameraman ducked and sought cover in his doorway but kept focused on the bright purple ghost that had just rocketed itself violently out onto the street. Powerful electricity shot from its body seemingly uncontrollably, messing up the phone camera’s autofocus and brightness adjustment—so the gender or age of the poltergeist was unclear, though its destructive potential was very much apparent.

As some of its lightning hit a nearby tree and set it ablaze, five of CSR’s elite Specter Containment and Eviction Unit soldiers charged out. One issued orders, three of them fired their microwave guns that could disrupt and stun a specter’s coherence, and the last one, at the right moment, launched a projectile from his rifle: an electrified Faraday net that countered a ghost’s electrical field and kept them from passing through, effectively ensnaring them as long as the battery held out.

The agent’s aim was perfect, and the poltergeist disappeared into a mesh metal bag. The video ended once one of the agents looked in the cameraman’s direction, making him dart back inside and stop filming.

Brendan had seen far worse. He knew of the things a fully enraged, empowered poltergeist could do to people—perhaps only through the web, but nothing was censored on the videos he watched. At least this one had no casualties. Or did it? He went to the central Reddit forum for specter research, reports, and sightings, and quickly found the thread for the video.

Apparently it killed three of the agents that went inside the house, read the top comment, made about four hours ago. Nasty little bastard.

Atlanta—was that a new hub of activity? Brendan logged into his licensed account at usspecresearch.gov, and went to the map to check.

Green Bay’s circle was small and green, indicative of relatively little activity and a low threat level. Atlanta had a bigger, orange circle. Some cities had red circles. Crime and poverty levels in any urban environment were amongf the biggest factors in an area’s the ghostly presence, but large disasters also had an effect. When considering that a quieter and peaceful city like Green Bay still had at least a few ghosts wandering around every block, it made other places sound inundated.

Brendan shifted his eyes in the direction of Neche’s room, and went to the database of all known ghosts, which grew exponentially each day. Many never gave their names or could be identified in any way, and only had numbers that included their first known location. Others did have their names, and some had handlers or at least a guardian of sorts that out of compassion or a lasting family bond, let them stay in their home.

He hated lying to Neche. In truth, he checked her details weekly. It was the quickest way to see if either of them was under observation.

Identification Number: GB-WI-0221

Name: Neche Anne-Smithe

Ethnicity: Native American - Ojibwe

DOB/DOD: 3/9/1987 – 10/16/1998

Cause of Death: (minor; limited to US Spectral Research Division officials)

Last Known Location: Green Bay, Wisconsin (handler check in, 2030)

Handler: (information limited to US Spectral Research Division officials)

Threat Index (0, lowest concern – 5, immediate threat): 0

Known Incidents: None

Other Observations: Somewhat ill-tempered and impatient, but typical

It was the same as it had always been. She was officially registered and stayed out of trouble. He thought about their shared past. It was starting to feel unbelievable that things had remained stable for so long.

He very seldom did so, but at this late, cold, and dark hour of the morning, he left his room, went over to her small part of the house, and turned the doorknob. Using only the hallway light to see, he walked across the immaculate carpet and twisted around to get a look at the place.

Neche had a bed, but she didn’t need it; it was purely to make her domain a bedroom and give its sparseness some sense of function. The only other piece of furniture she had was a drawer with some personal, history-filled effects inside. Atop was a vintage iPod with a physical scroll wheel and button that she could interact with, attached to an old stereo.

The room had two smoke detectors, just in case. Fully covering the walls were photographs and magazine cutouts that she rotated frequently.

They were of people and places that made her happy, and let her just lightly touch the period of time in which she lived. Ghosts could adapt and learn with time, but they would always have an insatiable longing for their ever increasingly distant past. In Neche’s case, she kept her walls dressed in whatever 1990s ads, pictures, memorabilia, and pages from gaudy tween magazines that Brendan would buy for her off auction sites.

He turned and noticed her floating upright in the darkest corner of the room near the ceiling, black as a shadow, and very faint. He found dormant ghosts scarier than active ones. They lingered, unnaturally still, in the spot where they had gone to sleep, their eyes shut as they remained unmoving. They became just a hollow presence, and like all the others, Neche lowered the temperature of the room by a few degrees. If he were to place his hand through her, it would be chilled further.

They could only be woken up by a powerful electromagnetic field, or a direct shock, so he kept a Taser in his room for emergencies. For now, he only wanted to check on her. His fleeting and baseless concern that something had or was going to change dissipated, and he left the room, closing the door to engulf her room once again in darkness.

Three hours after he had drifted off, his phone rang. A light sleeper, he jolted off his pillow right away and checked the caller ID on the screen. It was Daniel. This must have been the second time he called, as the first effort would have been silenced by his phone’s active do not disturb setting. With his schedule, he dreaded the morning call, but was obliged to answer.

Hey, Brendan. You awake, man?

What do you think…? he muttered back.

"Yeah, well… I got that job interview at CSR, you know, and like, I gotta be there by nine. And I forgot to charge my car when I came home last night! God, it’s so stupid, man. I was freaking out about everything else, really stressing, and I forgot to plug my car in! Thing’s got like a mile of range left, and it won’t get up enough to get me there now, you know?"

Brendan mumbled something incoherent and dropped his face into his pillow. He knew what was coming next.

So, uh, do you think you could bring your old ICEr over and give me a lift? You actually got gasoline in it, right? C’mon, man…

Yeah, he replied with a groan. Juss… give me a minute…

With a complete lack of energy, he slid himself out of bed and threw on some clothes. Neche wouldn’t be awake for at least another five hours, which was a good thing. He didn’t want her following him to a CSR branch, or even finding out he had gone there.

Official records aside, it was always a good idea to keep her calm.

Chapter Five

Job Opportunities

We gotta go, I got like ten minutes, Danny said as soon as he opened the passenger door of Brendan’s old Honda, idling outside his house. Thanks, man. You’re a lifesaver.

Brendan’s response was stalled by another yawn, and he had put the car back into drive before he could get it out, Just so you know… I’m running on about three hours of sleep here.

You need to go to bed way earlier, man. Like the rest of society.

I like late nights, I don’t like mornings, I sleep well enough if I go to bed before sunrise, and I still do the night shift at the Shell on weekends.

Maybe you should get yourself a full-time job.

Brendan turned the car’s heat down. I make enough money. I don’t want to settle into some long, boring, never-changing daily schedule.

You don’t have to. Become a corporate whisperer. I know they’d take you, Danny assured him as he put a knee up on the dashboard.

Can’t. Neche would be subject to monthly inspections.

She’d pass them all. There’s nothing scary about her.

Brendan turned and looked out his side’s window as he waited at a red light. Green Bay’s small downtown was just a few blocks away.

So, uh… You actually think you’ll get this job?

I don’t know. Maybe. You know I don’t stress about things like that. Sure, it’s what I want to do, but I’m not going to worry about it.

And you wanted to help develop… what again?

Doesn’t matter. Wherever they need me. I like working with optics though, and if these TK rumors are true… Oh, man, that’d be something else to get involved in. But, we’ll see. I’ll do whatever.

Brendan looked at his friend at the next light as he checked his email on his smart watch, and smiled a little. Danny had barely changed over the years. Though he exuded a stoner’s personality and never attended college, he was a free-spirited tech genius. He never got upset when something of his broke, because he always liked the challenge of putting it back together.

Located on the edge of the urban center, the small, two-story former office building was hardly anything special, and was only unceremoniously decorated with a generic CSR emblem. Brendan parked his car in the public lot across from the bay filled with the containment unit’s black vans.

So, uh… If you get this job, you’ll probably be going to Chicago, right? Brendan asked after he put his car into park.

Guess so. But, you know, I’ll still come here to visit you and my parents. Or if you got nothing tying you down, why not just move down there with Neche? Lots of good freelance work in bigger cities.

I don’t know. I’m so indecisive about ever moving.

You gotta embrace the change sometimes, man. Let it in.

A little more physically capable by now, Brendan followed his friend into the nearly empty lobby. It was an old building, and the interior was cold, brown, and utilitarian. It looked like the kind of place that no one other than filers or phone operators worked at. Without the framed photographs on the beige walls, the place would have no personality at all.

Daniel Mason? Oh, yes, I’ll let them know you’re here, the elderly receptionist told him, a portrait of the wealthy CSR founder Carter Willem looking on from behind her desk. It should be just a moment.

You want to get breakfast after, hear about how it went? Danny offered once he returned to Brendan, resting on the only couch.

Nah… I don’t think so. Maybe after you know you got the job? I kind of just want to go home and go back to sleep.

We gotta get you out more. You’ll stop being young soon.

Brendan only gave him a tired shrug, and a few moments later, one of the building’s employees came and took his friend away.

After twenty minutes, he grew bored of either staring into space or checking the news on his phone while the receptionist typed away on her computer, so he got up and began to look around at the photographs.

They weren’t the hunting trophies that he was semi-expecting; like pictures of captured ghosts or moments where a fierce one was about to be taken down by a brave agent. Most were simply images of squads and teams of researchers, or project heads holding up the latest tech.

There was one snapshot of interest, however: a black and white record of a terrifying poltergeist in CSR captivity. Glaring menacingly at the camera from inside a tempered Faraday cage, it was generating waves of powerful electricity that distorted the air around it.

He heard an elevator door