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that show. He buys into all of that hocus-pocus crap. Personally, I think it’s a load of bull manure.”
    Thomas knew he should be accustomed to this kind of uncensored comment, but even after four seasons, the sheer tactlessness of it still stunned him. People seemed to think that the basic decency requirement didn’t apply when talking with a celebrity. It was part and parcel of being in the public eye.
    It was hard to fault the sceptics—even the rude ones. Thomas’s own scepticism was growing with every episode. Occasionally they would investigate a haunting claim and walk away with more questions than answers, but being unexplained and being genuinely supernatural were two very different things. Mostly, they turned up a big, fat, nothing, all the while the network hounding them to make it into something. Make the lighting spookier. Use more flashy gadgets. Look more terrified as you speak into the camera in an ominous tone.
    This definitely was not what Thomas had had in mind when he’d got his journalism degree.
    Thomas leaned on the counter. The clerk was staring him down and chomping at her gum with her oversized teeth.
    “Have you ever seen a ghost?” he asked her, genuinely interested in her answer.
    “Nope,” she said, popping the letter P for emphasis.
    “Yeah. Me neither.”
    Thomas returned his wallet to his jeans pocket, scooped up the plastic bag of batteries and headed back to the van. He opened the driver’s side door and passed the bag to Brad.
    Thomas climbed in and shut the door. He caught Brad’s gaze in the rear-view, then turned to Bridget.
    “I’m done. This is my last one. Once we wrap this investigation, my ghost-hunting days are over.”
    “Geez, I’m really sorry, Thomas,” Brad said.
    Thomas looked back into the mirror. His cameraman seemed crushed.
    “I’ll do better. I can write notes to myself, or maybe make a checklist of things I need to bring on shoots. Hey, I know, I could start taking those memory vitamins. Or…”
    Thomas turned and reached between the seats. He patted Brad on the shoulder to stop the apology.
    “It’s not you, man, It’s all this,” Thomas said, gesturing to the equipment lining the interior walls of the van. “It’s the night-vision goggles, and the infrared cameras and the EMF meters. I mean, what the fuck does an EMF meter really do anyway?”
    Brad tilted his head and wrinkled his brow. “Electromagnetic Field meter? You know what it is, Thomas. It’s used to detect fluctuations in—”
    Thomas held up his hand to stop the explanation.
    “Yeah, I know what it does, but who says a disturbance in the electromagnetic field means there’s a ghost? Who says that if the temperature in a room drops a couple of degrees that there’s a ghost? Who says that every unexplained creak and bump in the night can only be attributed to a fucking ghost? Huh? We do.
    “We go on television and pretend like we know what we’re doing and that we have all the answers and there are people out there who actually believe it. It’s bullshit and we’re bullshitters and I’m done with all of it.”
    Thomas backed out of the parking space, slammed the gearshift into Drive and peeled out onto the two-lane county road. He glared through the windshield. “By the way, how did the ghost tell the subject to call us?”
    When Bridget didn’t answer immediately, Thomas jerked his head to face her and then returned his attention to the road. “Well?”
    “He, um, well…” Bridget’s answer came in a voice so small that Thomas and Brad had to lean in to hear. “He kept changing the television channel to our show.”
    Thomas let out a “Ha!” that could in no way be mistaken for laughter then seemed to be talking to himself as he muttered, “Well, that’s just great. He changed the channel.”
    The team was silent as they travelled the last ten miles to Soldiers Orchard and the reportedly haunted inn.
     
    * * * *
     
    Keeping it from the guests was