Declan’s car was sleek, new, and wouldn’t have been considered especially ostentatious at a country club or the parking lot at one of those super-secret, men-only social clubs where rich dudes sit around, brandy in one hand and a lit cigar in the other, dreaming up new ways to oppress minorities and the middle class.

Clementine’s carefully neutral façade faltered for the first time upon seeing it, a glimmer of disgust flickering over her face. But Declan didn’t notice. And even if he had, Clementine suspected, he’d probably misinterpret her revulsion as awe and admiration.

The interior of the vehicle was a little less shiny. He’d obviously had it cleaned within the previous 24 hours – the seats were still slightly damp with shampoo – but it couldn’t quite mask the lingering odor of fried food and dude butt. Clementine wrinkled her nose as she buckled her seatbelt, Declan still apparently oblivious to her judgment.

He started the car and pulled onto the road, as Clementine watched her crappy little sedan shrink in the rearview mirror. As usual, she was torn between concern that the unreliable locks on her rear driver’s side door would be an invitation to thieves and the faint hope that some criminal would be stupid enough to relieve her of her vehicular burden. Although she couldn’t really count on a good insurance payout. The blue book value was probably a nickel and a stick of gum.

“So,” Declan said, seemingly uncomfortable with any prolonged silence, “do you have any questions for me? Or do I just start talking? I’ve never done anything like this before.”

Clementine smiled and pulled out her digital recorder, fumbling briefly with the on switch.

“Well, let’s just start at the beginning, I guess, if that’s all right with you?”

“Of course.”

“So, uh, ghost hunting. That’s a pretty weird hobby, isn’t it?”

It’d been seven years since Clementine’s first newspaper gig, and she still had a hard time starting interviews for fluff stories. Put her in front of a politician or a lawyer or a man accused of strangling neighborhood pets while dressed as an anthropomorphic arctic fox, and she’d dive in headfirst. She could play her interviewees – or victims, as she liked to think of them – like fiddles, mixing flattery, persistence and trickery into a potent cocktail sure to disarm the most guarded, hostile subject.

And once Clementine had wriggled her way past a victim’s defenses, she was brutal, unforgiving and relentless, unafraid to back the tri-state region’s most powerful men and women into corners and leave them there, whimpering softly, as she walked away with her story.

But whenever she’d had to slum it and interview members of a quilting club or the organizers of a cat fashion show, she suddenly reverted to a first-year J-school student. It wasn’t arrogance, necessarily; Clementine didn’t think she was above anything in or anyone. But frivolity wasn’t her bag, and no amount of hand-knit feline sweaters was going to make her think otherwise.

From Declan’s smirk at her awkward leadoff question, Clementine could tell he thought of himself as anything but frivolous. He probably thought he had intimidated the little reporter from a Podunk Midwestern newspaper with a circulation of 40,000 (and dropping like a rock wrapped in lead). Clementine smiled again – she was getting sick of smiling – and waited patiently for an answer.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that. But I don’t really think of it as a hobby. More of a calling. Like this is what I was born to do. Yeah, I love my work and it’s important. I mean, electrical engineers save lives every day. But by investigating the spiritual realm, proving that there is something beyond this mortal world – well, that has the potential to save souls as well.”

Clementine briefly wondered if it was possible to suffer an aneurysm from fighting her eye-roll reflex. But she maintained her composure and soldiered on, ignoring the sudden pang she felt behind her eyes.

“So how do you get into something like this? Did you have an experience with a ghost or something?”

Declan smirked his most punchable smirk.

“First off,” – Clementine could almost hear the unspoken “little lady” – “we don’t call them ‘ghosts.’ We call them ‘apparitions’ or ‘manifestations’ or even ‘spirits,’ if that’s too technical for you.”

He looked over to ensure his captive audience hadn’t been distracted by something, like the thrilling procession of cornfields between which they were traveling. Though it was a rural area, there was a fair amount of traffic, and Clementine worried he’d drift into the oncoming lane.

But after a longer-than-comfortable moment, Declan returned his attention to the road, apparently satisfied that his four-syllable words have dazzled sweet, naïve Clementine.

“OK,” she said. “Let’s call them apparitions. Have you ever seen one?”

Declan pursed his lips.

“Yes and no,” he said, after an interminable pause. “Yes, in that I’ve experienced something that can only be explained by the existence of a realm inhabited by spirits. Of that I have no doubt. But, sadly, I’ve never actually witnessed what most people would define as a ‘spirit,’ or the residual energy left over by a deceased person who has, through some yet understood act of energy transference, left his or her imprint behind.”

“So no floating bedsheets going ‘booo,’ or departed business associates visiting you in the night to scare you off your miserly ways?”

Declan laughed.

“No, nothing like that, unfortunately. Although when we get to the house, you should talk to Abby. She swears she’s seen one. Like a perfectly defined manifestation. She gets a little excited about things, so I’m not too sure. But she’s fairly adamant, so we just kind of let it go. You know how it is.”

Yeah, Clementine thought, fighting another eye roll and another shooting pain that probably signaled the beginning of a brain hemorrhage. Bitches be seein’ ghosts.

There was an awkward pause, during which Declan not-so-surreptitiously checked out Clementine’s chest. She cleared her throat and his gaze shot back to the road suddenly, as if her tits had somehow tazed his eyeballs.

“So,” he began, clearly more uncomfortable with companionable silences than Clementine. “How long have you been with the paper?”

The rest of the drive passed with idle small talk. And all the while Clementine’s digital recorder continued rolling, saving the conversation for posterity. Unlikely though it was that Declan’s surprisingly impassioned assertion that a beloved local Italian restaurant used too many frozen ingredients would make Clementine’s final story.

Finally, Keller House appeared on the horizon, appearing black against a golden evening sky. From a distance it seemed surprisingly innocuous, a standard – if enormous – farmhouse, hardly living up to its reputation as a nightmare fuel for generations of townies.

But as Declan’s car got closer, the cornfields on either side of Keller House seemed to gray and wilt, the bare branches of a forlorn oak tree suddenly becoming menacing and vile, like the fingers of a plague-ridden beast intent on spreading its diseased misery to all within reach.

The toll the years had taken on the house itself became evident as well. Two of four façade windows had been broken at some point over the years, sealed only with clapboard and nails. The once-white paint job had seen better decades, and a porch swing sat, forgotten and rotting, on the warped wooden decking, with no visible evidence of the chains that must have once suspended it from a rickety-looking awning.

But the grass lawn was neat and respectable, if a little patchier than most homeowners would prefer. And the gravel driveway bisecting the property had obviously recently been touched up, likely in slapdash anticipation of the publicity Clementine’s article was sure to stir up.

Two cars and a van were parked at the residence, lined up neatly between the main building and a tilting machine shed. Unlike Declan’s car, which looked as if it had been waxed by servants wielding rags made of the finest koala pelts, the other vehicles resembled Clementine’s, giving her hope that pretentiousness was not a shared attribute among all members of RRPS.

As Declan pulled up alongside the van, the front door screen creaked open. Out stepped a short, plump girl and a tall, rail-thin man, each of whom appeared a few years younger than Clementine. The girl wore suspenders, thick glasses and a kind face, and Clementine instantly wanted to pinch her cheeks and give her a hug. The man might have been handsome, with his artfully tousled hair and dark, carefully sculpted stubble. But his eyes were furrowed and his jaw set in a manner that appeared far too comfortable on his face for a person of his age.

The girl smiled and waved at Clementine as she got out of the car, hefting her laptop bag over her shoulder. Clementine cracked what felt like her first genuine smile in hours, and waved back. She was about to introduce herself when the man – whom she’d internally dubbed Surly Dude – spoke.

“Where the hell have you been, man? Do you know what time it is?”

His pocket-sized companion rolled her eyes and looked away, uncomfortably anticipating what Clementine suspected was a well-worn clash of personalities. Surly Dude radiated contempt, and Clementine was fairly sure some of those negative vibes were directed at her.

“Sorry bro,” Declan said. “Had to pick up our special guest.”

“She couldn’t have just met us here? And why did that take you an hour and a half? Town’s only 10 minutes away.”

Declan was momentarily stymied.

“I just had some errands to run, man.”

“For fuck’s sake, errands? We’re on a job dude, and you’re not taking this ser—”

Declan cut Surly Dude off with a sharp look and a raised hand.

“Jackson, please. Can we not do this now? I have to assume this conversation is on the record.”

Declan glanced back at Clementine, who had been quietly creeping, inch-by-inch, behind the van, putting a buffer between herself and the awkward confrontation. He cracked a cocksure smile

“No, it’s fine. It’s fine,” she stammered. “We’re not, uh… I’m not recording or anything?”

It came out like a question, and Clementine instantly hated herself. Even with stories like this, features so fluffy you could pick them up for 50 bucks at the local humane society, it was bad form to let sources dictate terms. Plus, it was embarrassing.

She swallowed and set her shoulders in what she hoped was a confident, assertive pose.

“I’m not recording. Yet. But once we do get the ball rolling, everything we say is on the record unless we both agree otherwise in advance. That cool, Jackson?”

Surly Dude – Jackson – looked incredulous for a brief moment. Then his features cooled and he offered Clementine a quick conciliatory shrug.

“Sure thing, boss.”

“Great. Cool.”

Declan looked from Jackson to Clementine, clearly expecting the exchange to continue. When he realized that both sides had reached a détente, he pressed on.

“Jackson, I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I really am. But we’re here now. And instead of wasting time fighting about my absence, why don’t we get to work? Maybe start with a quick tour of the main level? We can meet up in the command center before we go into the rest of the house.”

Before Jackson could respond, the short girl darted forward and grabbed Clementine by the arm, giving it a friendly squeeze.

“I’m Abby,” she said, smiling broadly at Clementine.

“Uh, Clementine.”

“Oh my gosh, I love your name. It’s so old-fashioned. Is it like a family name or something?”

“Um, no. I think my mom just really liked those little oranges.”

Abby’s smile grew impossibly broader, and Clementine noticed teeth that – unlike her own – clearly were no stranger to the dentist’s office. Clementine smiled back shyly, making a conscious effort to keep her less-than-stellar canine hidden behind her lips.

“That’s so funny,” Abby said. “My mom named me Abigail because she read it in a book. But all she reads are those smutty romance novels that help sad middle-aged ladies get off. So I try not to think about it too much.”

“Probably for the best.”

“Yeah. My brother is named Sebastian, so the theory is pretty sound.”

Clementine cracked what was probably the first genuine smile of the evening. It was hard to be jaded and cynical and brooding around somebody who had the positive energy of a hyperactive Care Bear.

“So are you going to show me around?”

“Oh yes,” Abby said, pulling Clementine up the rickety porch steps and through the open door. “This is so cool. I’ve never talked to a reporter before. Are you going to quote me? Do you have any input on what goes into the comics page? I used to like that strip about office workers, but then I found out the author’s like basically a sexist Nazi.”

Clementine took stock of the massive home while Abigail continued her stream-of-consciousness musings, seamlessly alternating between helpful information about the RRPS’ investigative process and random observations about the amount of dust in Keller House and an anecdote about the time she sliced her thigh open while sledding down a hill behind a grocery store.

The house was compartmentalized into many small rooms, the doors separating which had been propped open by the RRPS team. Industrial work lamps had been set up throughout the building, though the light from the powerful bulbs seemed to be almost immediately absorbed by dark corners and liquid shadows, giving the house the squalid look of a 19th-century coal mine.

Clementine approached a cracked, full-length mirror in the foyer and was surprised to observe a floral pattern on the peeling, yellowish wallpaper. She ran two fingers along the wall and was unsurprised to find them coated in a thick layer of dust.

A chattering Abby pulled Clementine into a larger room off the foyer, which she immediately pegged as the home’s den and primary living space. The room was spotted with ancient pieces of moldering furniture that, had they been properly cared for, would have made fine museum pieces, Clementine wagered. The walls were adorned with aged paintings so grimy that it was impossible to guess their subjects without careful scrutiny, the elaborate wooden frames shedding golden paint chips like skin from a week-old sunburn. Hanging from the high ceiling was an elaborate crystal chandelier, though Clementine noted that several pieces appeared to have fallen away, exposing ugly copper wiring.

A staircase on the far well led to a mezzanine, where multiple closed doors were visible behind a low wooden railing. Clementine made a mental note to watch her step should she venture to the upper level, as the railing looked incapable of impeding the fall of anyone taller than the average toddler.

“We’re almost there,” Abby said, waving Clementine through an open door on the main level, sandwiched between a pair of empty bookcases.

Next Chapter: RRPS Origins