Nightmare (6 page)

"You shouldn't assume she's in any kind of mortal danger,
Derek," I calmly suggested. "Don't forget that your fiancee is one
of the world's richest people. If she got a sudden whim to fly off
to Rome on a moment's notice to get you a birthday present,
she happens to be one of the few people in the world who could
actually do that."

Derek seemed to turn on me, his expression dark. "Mortal
danger isn't my primary concern. I'm a lot more worried about
dangers to her soul than her body. The things you two were
meddling in . . . "

Here wego, I thought. In the handful of times I had met Derek
in the past, he'd made it more than clear-in a sweet, passiveaggressive, read-between-the-lines kind of way-that he disapproved of his fiancee's excursions into the paranormal with yours
truly. And I suspected that it went even deeper than that. My past,
my beliefs, my family's claim to fame. All of it railed against his
rigidly held view of the world.

But he'd never come across so belligerent before, so agitated and angry. Until today, I wouldn't have thought him capable of
such aggressive qualities.

Cut the guy some slack, Maia. I reminded myself that the love
of his life had vanished, and he had to be feeling painfully helpless to do anything about it. That kind of thing would make the
saintliest of men turn wild and desperate.

Still, I didn't take kindly to being accused of wrongdoing.

"You can't possibly have any reason to assume that the trips
we took have anything to do with Jordin's disappearance," I stated
flatly. And then it occurred to me the absurdity of the statement,
since I had compelling evidence that there very well could be a
connection. Evidence in the form of Ghost Town amusement
park.

Not that I was going to tell him that. Not yet, anyway.

"It doesn't matter what I think," Derek replied, his ire shrinking to despair. "All that matters is that she's gone."

I watched him, and despite how little I had in common with
Derek, I couldn't help empathizing with his pain. It surprised me
a bit, because I'm not exactly known for being the sympathetic
type. But something about his love for Jordin seemed so pure,
so desperate. I really think they needed each other, and were less
than whole when they were apart.

Acting on impulse, as my mother likes to criticize me so often
for doing, I made my decision then and there.

I was going to find Jordin Cole myself.

"I'm going to find her," I said to myself, not quite realizing
I'd said it out loud.

I had no idea what had happened to Jordin, and I didn't know
if what I saw at the amusement park was real. But I knew what I felt ... and what I suspected about the things Jordin was up to
right before she vanished.

Which would mean I was at least partly responsible for this
entire situation.

"You want to help me find her?" asked Derek. "Why?"

I noticed for the first time that he'd been staring at me in
shock since my little declaration. My temper flared.

"How many people are lining up to track her down for you,
Derek?" I retorted. "You said the police won't do anything. Are
you seriously going to question the first person who's willing
to try?"

"But you're not a detective," he said, a halfhearted protest.

"Not yet," I reminded him. "I am a criminal justice major."

And an investigation ofthis nature wasn't beyond my capabilities at all. I was a senior at Columbia, studying criminal justice. I
had learned more than a few things about law enforcement investigation tactics in my classes here, and after graduation, I intended
to get a job as a police detective, and maybe one day the FBI.

It was time to put the skills I'd learned over the last three
years to use. See if I really had a future as a detective.

Derek was starting to come around but wasn't quite there
yet. "Look, I appreciate your desire to help, but there are any
number of things that could have happened to Jordin, and this
is very serious, so let me be blunt. Your experience in this arena
is relegated to poking around in the dark, looking for things
that are nothing more than a trick of the human psyche. It's fear
made real by your mind. Ghosts do not exist."

"That's a belief, not a fact," I argued, taking up the charge.
"A belief is what you hold to be true despite a lack of tangible proof. A fact is what you can prove. You believe that a soul either goes to heaven or hell-and for what it's worth, I happen
to believe the same thing, I was raised Catholic-but you can't
prove it. Paranormal research is the search for proof of what you
cannot see."

Derek suddenly looked sad. "Then I guess that's the difference between us, Maia. My faith is strong enough that no proof
is required."

I studied him. "Can you, in all honesty, stand there and tell
me that you know what happens after a person dies? In a stepby-step, mechanical, methodical, scientific process? Every detail,
every sensation, every action that takes place between the moment
of death on the mortal plane and the entrance to eternal life on
the immortal plane?"

"You think there are pit stops along the way?" he shot back.
"Why can't it be as simple as a direct, straight line? Death ... to
heaven or hell. A to B."

"Maybe it is that simple," I admitted. "I can't say for sure,
and that's my point. All I can tell you is what I've experienced.
What I've seen and touched and smelled and heard for myself.
There are things that happen in the forgotten places of this world.
And you can't chalk up every one of those things to overactive
imaginations or mischievous demons."

Derek didn't reply for a long moment. "I believe there are
many, many supernatural things that happen that we will never
be able to know or understand in this life. And I believe in life
after death, Maia. I just don't think the things that happen here,
in this place, happen because of anything remotely human-dead
or otherwise."

"Have you ever considered that the existence of ghosts is not
dependent on your beliefs?"

Derek crossed his arms. "Why would a ghost wear clothes?"

The question caught me off guard. "What?"

"Most reports of so-called hauntings feature a dead soul
that's seen wearing the clothes he or she wore most often when
they were still alive. It makes no logical sense. People die, clothes
don't."

"I don't have all the answers!" I cried in a sudden burst.
"Ghosts, UFOs, psychics ... There are scientific, verifiable explanations for these phenomena. We just haven't found them yet.
I can't explain why any of these things happen, or why the paranormal even exists. It doesn't matter whether you believe me
or not, but I have seen and done things you cannot begin to
imagine. If you want my help, don't make light of what I know
to be real."

"Why would a ghost wear clothes?" He repeated his question
as a triumphant challenge, evidence of his rightness.

I loathed the look on his face and wanted to knock it off.

After a very long moment, during which I had to remind
myself to breathe, I answered. "I don't know."

He must have sensed how my mood had soured, so he called
off the attack. "Look, I can take you seriously. And if you want
to try and help me find Jordin, I'm grateful. But I don't believe
what you believe, and I never will."

"Fine, don't." I felt like a bull with steam coming out of my
nose in hot puffs of air.

Derek's eyes fell to the ground, and I got the impression
he was regretting coming on so strong with his opinions. He
seemed lost in thought for a long time, staring at the carpet in
my room.

If he was waiting for me to break the silence, he was wasting his time. He had caused the tension in the room to rise, not
me.

"I'm afraid," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "I'm scared
of what could have happened to her. So maybe my faith isn't as
strong as I like to think it is."

I was still frowning, but followed him back to the subject at
hand. "You mentioned the other girls she went to the Vineyard
with," I said, and Derek's downcast eyes looked up. "I assume
you've talked to them?"

"Sure, yeah," he replied. "They didn't know anything helpful.
Said that one day she just wasn't there anymore. They thought
that she'd gone off on her own for a while, but when a week
went by and she never turned up, they finally realized something
wasn't right."

I walked to the door and yanked it open. "Take me to see
Jordin's friends."

Derek looked almost alarmed. "Oh, I ... uh, I don't think
that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

He kind oflooked around me instead of at me. "These friends
of Jordin's ... They're not the nicest of people. And they don't
really like you."

He delivered this news like it was a delicate revelation that
could hurt my feelings. It didn't.

"How do they know me enough to not like me?"

"Well, when I talked to them the other day, your name came
up because of all the time Jordin spent with you last year," he
mumbled, looking as if he wanted to be somewhere else. "They
called you Linda Blair, the Blair Witch, and a few other names I
don't care to repeat."

I snickered. "Cute."

"It doesn't bother you?"

"I've been called worse," I admitted. Still, there was something
to be said for not giving a group of people who disliked you an
open opportunity to gang up. "Why don't you pick the least belligerent of the lot and take me to see that one."

He was still reluctant. "It's a waste of time. I told you they
don't know anything. I already talked to them."

"Yeah," I replied in my most confident voice. "But I haven't."

OCTOBER 2ND

"Tell me the name of this place again?"

I leaned back in my seat. The plane had just begun to pull
back from the terminal, preparing to whisk the two of us off to
Louisville, Kentucky, but Jordin had asked this question at least
three times since our arrival at the airport.

"Waverly Hills," I said. "It's an abandoned sanatorium."

Jordin had a brand-new-and alarmingly thick-leather-bound
journal in her lap and was writing furiously in it as I talked.

"So ... crazy people were kept there?"

I glanced at my companion, frustrated at her ignorance. But
it was such a common misconception, I found it hard to hold on
to the grudge. "A sanatorium is a place where people are treated for long-term physical illnesses. The patients at Waverly Hills were
treated for tuberculosis, about a century ago."

This would be my fourth investigation at Waverly Hills. I
knew it very well.

"And you're sure it's haunted?" asked Jordin, looking up
from her notebook for the first time.

"Some reports suggest that as many as sixty-three thousand
people died on the premises," I said. "They tried all sorts of things
to cure the disease-taking ribs out, removing entire lungs, and
electroshock therapy. Waverly Hills is a house of pain and horror.
It's saturated with the dead."

Her eyebrows popped up at this. "How big is this place?"

"Huge," I replied, glancing at Jordin. "You having second
thoughts? I've pulled some strings, using some of my parents'
contacts to arrange for us to have the entire facility to ourselves,
overnight. Once we're in, we're in. If you want to turn back.
.."

She scribbled in her journal again. "I'm not turning back. I
just ... This isn't quite what I was expecting."

"You said you only want to go to places that are guaranteed
to be haunted, right?"

Jordin nodded without looking up, but her expression was
less certain.

"Waverly Hills is without a doubt one of the most haunted
places in the whole world."

Suddenly she frowned, her expression skeptical. "I've never
even heard of it," she mumbled.

"Well, now you have." I looked out my window. It suddenly
occurred to me that I'd been thrust into a new role of teacher/
mentor. I didn't like it.

We sat in silence for a while as the plane lifted off the ground, and Jordin continued to write. I had hoped to get some time to
do a little studying during this trip, but the silence didn't keep.