Speed Dating With the Dead by Scott Nicholson

wholesale and decked them out with a few stickers and a marketing image at double the cost.
    A younger couple, who appeared more interested in each other than in Wayne’s explanation of the hunt logistics, carried no equipment besides digital cameras. A balding man in a plaid jacket projected an unhealthy eagerness, as if ghosts were the only entities that could endure his company for long. Martin Gelbaugh, the final member of the group, hovered around the edge like a wolf waiting to cull the weakest from the pack.
    “Okay, folks, here’s the drill. We have one hour in 202. First I want to give you a little history on–”
    “Excuse me,” Gelbaugh said. “Wouldn’t it be preferable to go in with a blank slate rather than a head full of suggestions?”
    “Not necessarily,” Baldy said. “If you know the stories, then you know what to look for.”
    “Exactly,” Gelbaugh said. “You find what you’re looking for.”
    Baldy wasn’t sharp enough to pick up on the sarcasm, but one of the old ladies said, “If there’s a ghost in the room, I want to know before I step foot in there.”
    Great , Wayne thought. A hunter afraid of ghosts .
    “For the record, 202 features anomalies such as tobacco smoke from nowhere, an alarm clock that turns on and off by itself, and a moving cold spot,” he said. “The EMF levels are fairly stable and consistent with the room’s wiring. Multiple reports suggest an entity lingers in the room, but I won’t go into details. You can read the Ghost Register at the front desk if you want to know the rest. Now let’s head out so we can stay on schedule.”
    One old woman, the one whose slumping posture made her resemble an undersize Quasimodo, said to the other, “Maybe the ghosts wait until after bedtime.”
    Wayne led them down the hall, where they passed a group led by The Roach. Wayne gave a casual salute, impressed by the military precision The Roach had drilled into his charges. The small MAG lights clipped on the bill of his cap gave him credence and furthered his insectile demeanor. Wayne was glad they’d selected the black jump suits as uniforms, because they conveyed organization and competence and also a slight suggestion of danger.
    Spiritual storm troopers, armed and ready.
    The door to 202 was open, with wires running along the baseboard of the hall and feeding into the room. Burton had rigged surveillance cameras in each of the hunt locations, arranged to capture evidence but also help Wayne track the progress of the various groups. Any guest that wanted to drop out and conduct armchair hunting could sit in the control room and get their money’s worth, imagining shadows on the tiny monochrome screens.
    Room 202 was a honeymoon suite, with a renovated kitchenette and a spacious bathroom with a sunken tub. The windows faced east, and dusk was already settling on the rippling hills in the valley below. Night came suddenly in the mountains, especially in November with the solstice approaching. Wayne had almost forgotten the magical aura of the Blue Ridge, with its gray shroud of fogs and ancient, mute granite slabs.
    “Okay, folks,” Wayne said, instinctively lowering his voice as the group entered the room. Hunters whispered on a scene, and they assembled with all the reverence of devotees entering church. After all, this was a mystical act of faith and belief. They came to see the unseen and know the unknowing, and they were eager to eat the invisible wafer.
    “Can we take pictures yet, Mr. Wilson?”
    The woman, whose name tag read “Ann,” projected the air of a tourist. Up close, she looked a little older than her companion, Duncan, and Wayne figured her for a rich cougar who’d netted a hunk in the twilight of her hotness. Nothing was sadder than a woman fighting the losing battle with time and growing desperate and scared as her feminine vanity fought the truth.
    I never got to go through that with Beth.And she was braver than I could ever be. She would have