Perception (Apparition Investigations #1)

Case #2: Hell's Gate: Part 2

As had become custom this past week, I stopped just inside my front door. For a split second, I just listened. Drowned out the sound of the television that I left on, ignored the sounds floating through the paper-thin walls, and prayed that I heard another living soul within the apartment.

But, as had also become custom, I was alone.

Well, not entirely. But there weren't any other living people in the apartment.

I masked my twinge of disappointment by shrugging out of my jacket. West Texas weather: bulky coats last week, light jackets this one.

My jacket gave a sharp tug and then floated from my hands.

I turned to see it hovering toward the coat rack, gently landing on the empty rung.

"You're getting better at that," I said. "The jacket's fairly heavy, isn't it? I mean, compared to what you've normally been able to move telepathically."

Cyril's voice floated through the room, his baritone, husky tone now familiar. "Practice makes perfect."

Last week, Cyril had discovered that if he got angry—like Hulk level angry—he could move things telepathically. Turned out, when he needed to use extreme concentration to interact with things, he was doing that telepathically too. He just hadn't realized it. Since then, he and Oliver had been trying to move things without having to rely on pure, unbridled rage to do so.

I strained my eyes, hoping to see a vague outline or shape. But there was nothing. No shadows, no blurs, no forms.

I could only hear our resident ghosts. Bronte and Noah were the ones that could see them.

I moved into the living room, glancing at the television. "V for Vendetta?" I asked, plopping on the couch. A chill tingled through my right side and I scooted over. "Sorry, Oliver."

"No worries," Oliver said, his soft-spoken voice close by. Another custom in the previous week had been the flatness of his tone, and that one, sadly, still persisted too. "Have you seen this one before? It was on your Netflix saved choices."

"I have, actually. It's a great one. Is this your first time seeing it?"

"Yes. It came on after the Captain America film—I think it was the second one. When his friend returns. I like those. I've noticed you do seem to enjoy movies with heroes standing up against vilified governments."

"What can I say? I'm a rebel at heart."

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement. I turned to see a pair of Funko mini figurines floating from their spot on the kitchen bar. Frodo and Samwise, carried by and invisible force, drifted into the living room. Frodo flew over the couch, to close to where I'd just been sitting, but it stopped in midair before hitting the cushions.

Unable to see them, we'd had to resort to the ghosts holding objects so I could tell roughly where they were. Cyril used Samwise Gamgee and Oliver used Frodo Baggins.

"Glad to see your arm is doing better, Cyril. If you can throw like that."

"It's all healed. As is my leg. You wouldn't be able to tell I'd been attacked by a demonized serial killer if you looked at me now."

"I'll take your word for it."

Embarrassment flooded his voice. "That's not what I—I'm sorry, I know that you can't—it's an expression—I didn't—"