Adventures Of An Amateur Ghost Hunter: The Somner House

14 January - The Dilemma: A Mysterious Caller

She called to me. I couldn't see her but she was there, her sinister presence caressing my soul. My head throbbed and chest tightened as she hissed my name in an echo of melodic dissonance.

Ally.

It burned. Ice cold. Dagger sharp.

She said, "You will pay for me."

A warning? A threat? Her words clawed at my skull.

And then a male's voice, softer than snow, cried, "Help me. Help us."

But the dream vanished as quick as it came; faded into vague recollection. Its spectral memory teased my mind, sparking connection but too weak to contribute upon reflection. This happened the evening before the first call.

***

The nights of waking at three in the morning were months behind me . . . or so I'd thought. At least this time, I wasn't screaming. Oh, no, instead of being terrorized by a dream raiding wraith, phantom phone calls happened to be the vice. My roommates, once again, were none the wiser. A blessing or a curse? I didn't give a damn. I just wanted to sleep.

The first night the phone rang, I answered, severely pissed and groggy, to heavy breathing. Then, the call dropped. I often fell victim to middle of the night disorientation and, in my muddled state, I returned the call, believing it to be Chantelle needing a ride home after girl's night at the bar. It wasn't a common occurrence but not rare enough to warrant confusion. The number, however, was out of service. Slightly odd but the warning flags never raised. Thank you phantom induced sleep deprivation.

Dragging my tired ass out of bed, I shot across the hall and glanced into Chantelle's room. The lump beneath the comforter was obviously her, so that was a no-go on her being the caller. I quietly shut her door and leaned against the wall, prickles of unease rolling across my spine. After the unnerving events of Riverhaven Sanatorium, I wasn't a stranger to the paranormal, nor to anyone—namely Jackson—sneaking into my home in the middle of the night, and decided, with semi-competence, to check the house, communal baseball bat in hand. I snuck room to room; peeked in every darkened corner, not exactly sure what I'd find but prepared nonetheless. All doors were locked, windows sealed tight. Drew snored from his room down the hall, and Izzy, as per usual, was still out mixing music at the club. No ghosts, no prowlers, no uninvited guests. All boxes ticked. Everything seemingly in order, I forgot all about the mysterious call and returned to bed.

The second night, the phone was on silent. Third, it'd been off. Last night, the battery was dead. Yet, the call still came, a siren blaring through the void. So, tonight, I waited, desperate for uninterrupted sleep but mind wired. Late nights and long days were becoming a frequent occurrence, especially when Jackson was around. Where he went, chaos followed. He begged for it; invited it into his life with open arms, the masochist, but somehow I couldn't stay away. The adrenaline I felt around him was both terrifying and enticing, an electrifying sensation that left my knees weak and heart racing. He also possessed an interesting, though eclectic, set of skills that granted him insight into the spiritual world. Jackson was a supernatural detective, of sorts, and, if anyone could figure out what the deal was with the phone calls, it'd be him.

He snoozed beside my bed, shirtless with sweatpants, on a nest he'd made of extra sheets, clean laundry, and his messenger bag, which he used as a makeshift pillow. The duffle bag filled to the brim with his ghost hunting equipment and magical goodies—such as gemstones, chalk, and candles—had become a footrest to prop up his legs. He'd made a habit of camping out on my floor after the last night of our investigation of Riverhaven three months prior, where we'd battled against the wraith of a former doctor for possession over my soul. I'd received the attachment thanks to a needle embedded in the bottom of my shoe. It wasn't an intentional souvenir, I mean, hell, bodily possessions never were, but Jackson enjoyed his teasing and frequently reminded me of my supposed shortcomings.