Ghost Town

After surviving their own haunting experiences with the supernatural, these paranormal investigators are ready to beat ghosts at their own game.

GHOST TOWN

MEET THE TEAM:

Amber Lozier
is the most sensitive member of the group. For years, she suffered from sleep deprivation, depression, and nightmares until she finally confronted the spirits that terrorized her. Now her vivid, often sinister, dreams verge on the psychic, allowing her to subconsciously work out problems and gain insights that prove valuable to her investigations.

Drew Pearson
is a psychologist who has been trying to find logical explanations for seemingly supernatural phenomena since he was a teenager. His intuition helps people deal with frightening and sometimes violent supernatural manifestations, and his expertise helps determine the emotional causes of their trauma.

Trevor Ward
is a writer who specializes in travel guides to haunted places. Since the terrifying night they spent together at Lowry House fifteen years ago, he's been trying to convince Amber and Drew to help him write a book about their experience. His connections, wealth of knowledge about paranormal topics, and research skills are important assets to the team.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Acknowledgments

About Jason Hawes and Grant Wilson

I have dedicated the last twenty-five years of my life trying to find the answers of what lies beyond this realm, this life and this world. I plan on spending the next twenty-five years doing the same.
I dedicate this book to all those who have stood beside me during my life's journey. The investigators that make up the T.A.P.S. family and other groups around the world. The inventors who have dedicated so much time in making equipment for us. Those who came before us and those who will carry the torch long after we are gone. To all those who have helped me create and expand this thing of ours that started in the basement of my house. Eventually, we will all find our answers, in this world or the next!

—Jason

I dedicate this book to those who have gone before us into the unknown: the people who lived a full life and passed through the veil. Thank you for trying to reach us. It has indeed made my life much more interesting and full. I hope to meet you all some day, and laugh and learn together.

—Grant

To Ramsey Campbell, who, without knowing it, taught me how to write a scary story.

—Tim

“. . . just
feel
the energy, you know?”

Tonya Jackson ignored the man's comment. She finished scanning his books—
Spectral Encounters, A Grimoire for the Beginning Warlock,
and, most ridiculous of all,
Pets from Beyond: True Stories of Animal Ghosts
. When she was finished, she slid the trade paperbacks into a plastic bag and then looked up, making sure to keep her expression neutral. The last thing she wanted to do was encourage him.

“That'll be twenty-nine ninety-five.”

The man went on as if he hadn't heard her. “I mean, the whole town just
oozes
psychic energy!” He turned to the girl on his left. “Am I right?”

The girl shrugged. She seemed far more interested in the gum she was chewing than in what her companion was talking about. Tonya didn't blame her.

The man was in his forties, short, with a prominent belly but stick-thin arms and legs. His unkempt beard was mostly gray, but he still had threads of black in his hair, which he wore in a ponytail bound by a leather thong. He wore a tan coverall with his last name sewn over the left breast—Donner—and the
Ghostbusters
logo sewn on the back. At least he wasn't wearing a fake proton pack, Tonya thought. The girl was around her age, Tonya guessed, somewhere in her mid- to late twenties. She was a good head taller than
her companion and thin almost to the point of looking malnourished. Her black hair was short and wild, as if she hadn't combed it in weeks. Despite the fact that it was late October and chilly outside, the girl had on a black minidress that left her shoulders and arms bare, the better to display the tribal tattoos on her back and chest.
The sacrifices we make for fashion,
Tonya thought.

Instead of reaching for his wallet to pay for his books, the man glanced down at the counter, and his gaze fell on a stack of brochures sitting next to the register. He picked one up and opened it.

“Esotericon? What's that?”

Tonya fought to hold in a sigh. She
loathed
chatty customers—especially weird ones. She had a sociology test the next morning, and she needed to be going over her notes. She didn't have time to waste on this geek. Besides, she was getting a creepy-old-man vibe off him. He was at least fifteen years older than the girl he was with, maybe more. But Jenn had left her in charge of the store that night, and she was always telling Tonya that she needed to work a little harder on her “customer relations.”

She forced a smile as she answered. “It's a conference on the paranormal that's held every year in conjunction with the town's Halloween celebration.”

“You mean Dead Days?” the girl asked, sounding bored.

Tonya couldn't stop her sigh this time. “That's right.”

The man leaned forward and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Is it true what they say? Is Exeter really the most haunted town in America?”

“It's just a slogan to bring in tourists. That'll be twenty-nine ninety-five for the books, sir.”

He didn't take the hint. “But you live here, right? You must have experienced some pretty strange things.”

I'm experiencing something pretty damned strange right now,
she thought. “I didn't grow up around here. I just take classes at the college. Twenty-nine ninety-five, please.” She said the price more
slowly this time, hoping he would finally take the hint. Normally, she preferred it when the store wasn't busy so she could text on her phone, surf the Net, or—if absolutely necessary—study. But now she wished there were some other customers there, so she would have a convenient excuse to end this annoying conversation. There were plenty of people strolling by on the sidewalk outside, many of them wearing costumes, but except for the two standing in front of her, it seemed no one was interested in coming inside to browse Forgotten Lore's stock of new and used books.

The man was undeterred by Tonya's response. He leaned forward a bit more, his eyes narrowing, mouth forming a conspiratorial smile. “Yeah, but you
work
in a paranormal bookstore. You must hear all kinds of stories . . .”

She hated October in Exeter. Tourism was the town's primary industry, and Exeter's reputation as a paranormal hot spot drew visitors year-round. But October brought a whole different level of crazy. People thronged the town, drawn by the twin attractions of the weeklong Halloween celebration called Dead Days and Esotericon, a conference that featured everyone from reputable scientists to what the con organizers generously referred to as “enthusiastic amateurs.”

“You know what kind of stories I hear? Pathetic spook fantasies from morons like you who actually believe in all this shit.” She waved her hand in a gesture meant to take in the entire bookstore.

The man looked shocked, but his companion laughed. “What a rude bitch,” she said, almost approvingly, and then she took the man's arm and steered him away from the counter. “C'mon, Donner. Let's go see what other weirdness we can find.”

The man gave Tonya a dirty look over his shoulder as they departed, his books left abandoned on the counter.

When they were gone, Tonya let out another sigh. She had tried, she really had, but she had never been one to suffer fools lightly,
and working there, fools were pretty much the only customers she got. The store's sections said it all: Ghosts, UFOs, Magik (with a “k,” of course), Alternative Spirituality, Psychic Phenomena, Cryptozoology . . . At least Jenn didn't actually believe in any of this paranormal crap. To her, it was an interesting hobby, something amusing to think about and engage her imagination, but that was all. Tonya didn't understand Jenn's point of view—all of this stuff seemed like a monumental waste of time to her—but if Jenn wanted to have a little fun while she made money off the deluded idiots who came in there, more power to her, as far as Tonya was concerned. Still, she looked forward to finishing her course work at Tri-County Community College so she could head off to Purdue, where she planned to major in high-school science education, leaving Exeter—and the loonies it attracted—behind for good.

Tonya pulled her cell phone from the back pocket of her jeans to check the time. Nine forty-two. Normally, Jenn closed the store at seven on weeknights, but she kept the store open until ten during Dead Days. Tonya knew she should be a good girl and keep the place open until closing time, especially since she had blown that last sale. But a few of her friends were getting together to watch movies. Just like Tonya, her friends hated Dead Days, so every year, they held an “Anti-Dead” party, where they watched anything but horror movies. Last year, they had watched comedies, but this year, they planned to watch what Tonya called weepers, dramas that left you in tears by the end. The party had started at nine, and she didn't want to miss any more of it than she had to. But she
should
be a good worker bee—

Her phone let out a few notes of her current favorite pop song to announce the arrival of a text message. It was from her roommate, Isobel: “Get ur butt ovr here, grl! Weve alrdy gon thru a boxa tissues!!!”

A second later, another text came in, this one from Julia: “And a pint of Cherry Garcia!”

Tonya's fingers flew across the keyboard. “BRT!” she texted.
Be right there!

She slid the phone back into her pocket and hurried to the front door. She locked it and flipped the Open sign to Closed. She felt a little guilty for locking up early, but she told herself that there was only fifteen minutes or so left until closing time, and the chances that anyone was going to come in and make a purchase were slim to none. Rationalization firmly in place, she reshelved the books Mr. Ghostbuster had abandoned, cashed out the register, and made a quick pass through the shop, straightening and tidying just enough so that it would pass muster with Jenn.

Forgotten Lore was located in an old two-story house on the southern end of Sycamore Street, the town's main business strip. Most of the buildings there housed funky little shops that sold art, crafts, or antiques, all of them at least tangentially related to the occult. The buildings were older than dirt, and Forgotten Lore's was, at least according to Jenn, the oldest of the lot. It stank of moldering wood and—thanks to all the books—decaying paper, and Tonya had to load up on allergy medicine before every shift. Even then, her eyes watered, and the back of her throat itched whenever she was there. Jenn didn't overdo the décor, something Tonya was exceedingly grateful for. Too many of the Sycamore Shops, as they were known locally, indulged in what Tonya thought of as horror drag. Color schemes of black and red, crystal balls resting on ornate metal stands, candles shaped like brooding skulls, and fake ravens with plastic feet wired to their perches. And the shopkeepers were just as bad, dressing like morticians or cut-rate carnival fortune-tellers. Jenn always dressed like a normal person, usually wearing a blouse and nice jeans, although she did have a regrettable tendency to wear large, gaudy earrings. Jenn let Tonya dress however she wished, as long her clothing wasn't inappropriate for work—which meant leaving her Skeptics Society T-shirt at home. This night she wore jeans and a bright tie-dyed T-shirt to
counter all the black the tourists wore. The shirt was a couple of sizes too large for her. She liked her clothes roomy in general, but not because she wanted to cloak her body. She had a nice shape and a more than generous bosom, but she didn't like wearing form-fitting clothing, especially at work. The last thing she wanted to do was attract any of the nutjobs who shopped there.