True Believer

  The game proceeded this way until he finally found his way back to her side. As he took a seat, she slipped the goggles off, grinning.

  "Here you go," she said.

  "Gee, thanks."

  "No problem. I'm glad I could help."

  For the next half hour or so, Lexie and Jeremy rehashed the events of the party. It was too dark for Jeremy to read Lexie's face, but he liked how close she felt in the enveloping darkness.

  Changing the topic of conversation, he said, "Tell me about the time that you saw the lights. I heard everyone else's story tonight."

  Though her features were nothing but shadows, Jeremy had the impression that she was being drawn back in time to something she wasn't sure she wanted to remember.

  "I was eight years old," she said, her voice soft. "For whatever reason, I'd started having nightmares about my parents. Doris kept their wedding picture on the wall, and that was the way they always looked in the dream: Mom in her wedding dress and Dad in his tuxedo. Only this time, they were trapped in their car after it had fallen in the river. It was like I was looking at them from outside the car, and I could see the panic and fear on both their faces as water slowly filled the car. And my mom would get this real sad expression on her face, like she knew it was the end, and all of a sudden, the car would start sinking faster, and I'd be watching it descend from above."

  Her voice was strangely devoid of emotion, and she sighed.

  "I'd wake up screaming. I don't know how many times it happened--it just sort of blurs together now in one big memory--but it must have gone on long enough for Doris to realize it wasn't just a phase. I suppose other parents might have taken me to a therapist, but Doris . . . well, she just woke me up late one night and told me to get dressed and put on a warm jacket, and the next thing I knew she'd brought me here. She told me she was going to show me something wonderful . . .

  "I remember it was a night like tonight, so Doris held my hand to keep me from stumbling. We wound our way among the tombstones and then sat for a while until the lights came. They looked almost alive--everything got really bright . . . until the lights just faded away. And then we went home."

  He could almost hear her shrug. "Even though I was young, I knew then what had happened, and when I got back home, I couldn't sleep, because I'd just seen the ghosts of my parents. It was like they'd come to visit me. After that, I stopped having the nightmares."

  Jeremy was silent.

  She leaned closer. "Do you believe me?"

  "Yes," he said, "actually, I do. Your story would have been the one that I remembered from tonight, even if I didn't know you."

  "Well, just so you know, I'd rather my experience not end up in your article."

  "Are you sure? You can be famous."

  "I'll pass. I'm witnessing firsthand how a little fame can ruin a person."

  He laughed. "Since this is off the record, then, can I ask if your memories were part of the reason you agreed to come out here tonight? Or was it because you wanted to enjoy my scintillating company?"

  "Well, it definitely wasn't the latter," she said, but even as she said it, she knew it was. She thought he realized it as well, but in the brief pause that followed her remark, she sensed that her words had stung.

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  "It's okay," he said, waiving it off. "Remember, I had five older brothers. Insults were mandatory in a family like ours, so I'm used to it."

  She straightened up. "Okay, to answer your question . . . maybe I did want to see the lights again. To me, they've always been a source of comfort."

  Jeremy picked up a twig from the ground and tossed it aside.

  "Your grandmother was a smart lady. Doing what she did, I mean."

  "She is a smart lady."

  "I stand corrected," he said, and just then Lexie shifted beside him, as if straining to see into the distance.

  "I think you may want to turn your equipment on," she said.

  "Why?"

  "Because they're coming. Can't you tell?"

  He was about to make a crack about being "ghostproof" when he realized that he could see not only Lexie but the cameras in the distance. And, he noticed, the route to the car. It was getting lighter out here, wasn't it?

  "Hello," she prompted. "You're missing your big chance here."

  He squinted, trying to make sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him, then aimed the remote at each of the three cameras. In the distance, the red power lights switched on. Still, it was all he could do to process the fact that something actually seemed to be happening.

  He glanced around, looking for passing cars or illuminated houses, and when he looked toward the cameras again, he decided that he definitely wasn't seeing things. Not only were the cameras visible, but he could see the electromagnetic detector in the center of his triangle as well. He reached for his night-vision goggles.

  "You won't need those," she said.

  He put them on, anyway, and the world took on a greenish phosphorescent glow. As the light grew in intensity, the fog began to curve and swirl, assuming different shapes.

  He glanced at his watch: it was 11:44:10 p.m., and he made a note to remember it. He wondered if the moon had suddenly risen--he doubted it, but he would check on the phase when he got back to his room at Greenleaf.

  But these were secondary thoughts. The fog, as Lexie had predicted, continued to brighten, and he lowered the goggles for a moment, noting the difference between the images. It was still growing brighter outside, but the change seemed more significant with the goggles. He couldn't wait to compare the videotaped images side by side. But right now all he could do was stare straight ahead, this time without the goggles.

  Holding his breath, he watched as the fog in front of them grew more silver by the moment, before changing to a pale yellow, then an opaque white, and finally an almost blinding brightness. For a moment, just a moment, most of the cemetery was visible--like a football field illuminated before the big game--and portions of the foggy light began to churn in a small circle before suddenly spreading outward from the cluster, like an exploding star. For an instant, Jeremy imagined that he saw the shapes of people or things, but just then the light began to recede, as if being pulled on a string, back toward the center, and even before he realized the lights had vanished, the cemetery had turned black once more.

  He blinked, as if to reassure himself that it had really happened, then checked his watch again. The whole event had taken twenty-two seconds from start to finish. Though he knew he should get up to check the equipment, there was a brief instant in which all he could do was stare at the spot where the ghosts of Cedar Creek had made their appearance.

  Fraud, honest mistakes, and coincidence were the most common explanations for events regarded as supernatural, and up to this point, every one of Jeremy's investigations into such events had fallen into one of these three categories. The first tended to be the most prevalent explanation in situations where someone stood to profit somehow. William Newell, for instance, who claimed to find the petrified remains of a giant on his farm in New York in 1869, a statue known as the Cardiff Giant, fell into this category. Timothy Clausen, the spirit guide, was another example.

  But fraud also encompassed those who simply wanted to see how many people they could fool, not for money, but just to see if it was possible. Doug Bower and Dave Chorley, the English farmers who created the phenomenon known as crop circles, were one such example; the surgeon who photographed the Loch Ness Monster in 1933 was another. In both cases, the hoax was originally perpetrated as a practical joke, but public interest escalated so quickly that confessions were rendered difficult.

  Honest mistakes, on the other hand, were simply that. A weather ballon is mistaken for a flying saucer, a bear is mistaken for Bigfoot, an archaeological find is discovered to have been moved to its current location hundreds or thousands of years after its original deposition. In cases like these, the witness has seen something, but the mind extrapolates the visi
on into something else entirely.

  Coincidence accounted for nearly everything else and was simply a function of mathematical probability. As unlikely as an event might seem, as long as it is theoretically possible, it more than likely would happen sometime, somewhere, to someone. Take, for instance, Robert Morgan's novel Futility, published in 1898--fourteen years before the Titanic sailed--which told the story of the largest and grandest passenger liner in existence that sailed on its maiden voyage from Southampton, only to be ripped apart by an iceberg, and whose rich and famous passengers were largely doomed in the icy North Atlantic because of a lack of lifeboats. The name of the ship, ironically, was Titan.

  But what happened here didn't fall neatly into any of those categories. The lights struck Jeremy as neither fraud nor coincidence, and yet it wasn't an honest mistake, either. There was a ready explanation somewhere, but as he sat in the cemetery in the rush of the moment, he had no idea what it could be.

  Through it all, Lexie had remained seated and hadn't said a word. "Well?" she finally asked. "What do you think?"

  "I don't know yet," Jeremy admitted. "I saw something, that's for sure."

  "Have you ever seen anything like it?"

  "No," he said. "Actually, this is the first time I've ever seen anything that even remotely struck me as mysterious."

  "It is amazing, isn't it?" she said, her voice soft. "I'd almost forgotten how pretty it could be. I've heard about the aurora borealis, and I've often wondered whether it looked like this."

  Jeremy didn't respond. In his mind's eye, he re-created the lights, thinking that the way they'd risen in intensity reminded him of headlights of oncoming cars as they rounded a curve. They simply had to be caused by a moving vehicle of some sort, he thought. He looked toward the road, waiting for passing cars, but not completely surprised at their absence.

  Lexie let him sit in silence for a minute and could almost see the wheels turning. Finally, she leaned forward and poked him in the arm to get his attention again.

  "Well?" she asked. "What do we do next?"

  Jeremy shook his head, coming back to her.

  "Is there a highway around here? Or another major road?"

  "Just the one you came in on that runs through town."

  "Huh," he said, frowning.

  "What? No 'ah' this time?"

  "Not yet," he said. "I'm getting there, though." Despite the inky darkness, he thought he could see her smirking. "Why do I get the impression that you already know what's causing them?"

  "I don't know," she said, playing coy. "Why do you?"

  "It's just a feeling I get. I'm good at reading people. A guy named Clausen taught me his secrets."

  She laughed. "Well, then, you already know what I think."

  She gave him a moment to figure it out before she leaned forward. Her eyes looked darkly seductive, and though his mind should have been elsewhere, he again flashed on an image of her at the party and how beautiful she had been.

  "Don't you remember my story?" she whispered. "It was my parents. They probably wanted to meet you."

  Perhaps it was the orphaned tone she used when she said it--simultaneously sad and resilient--but as a tiny lump formed in his throat, it was all he could do not to take her in his arms right then and there, in the hope of holding her close forever.

  Half an hour later, after loading up the equipment, they arrived back at her house.

  Neither of them had said much on the way home, and when they reached her door, Jeremy realized that he'd spent far more time thinking about Lexie as he drove than he had about the lights. He didn't want the evening to end, not yet.

  Hesitating before the door, Lexie brought a hand to her mouth, stifling a yawn before breaking into an embarrassed laugh.

  "Sorry about that," she said. "I'm not normally up this late."

  "It's okay," he said, meeting her gaze. "I had a great time tonight."

  "So did I," she said, meaning it.

  He took a small step forward, and when she realized he was thinking of trying to kiss her, she pretended to fiddle with something on her jacket.

  "I suppose I should call it a night, then," she said, hoping he took the hint.

  "Are you sure?" he asked. "We could watch the tapes inside, if you'd like. Maybe you could help me figure out what the lights really are."

  She looked away, her expression wistful.

  "Please don't ruin this for me, okay?" she whispered.

  "Ruin what?"

  "This . . . everything . . ." She closed her eyes, trying to collect her thoughts. "Both you and I know why you want to come inside, but even if I wanted you to, I wouldn't let you. So please don't ask."

  "Did I do something wrong?"

  "No. You didn't do anything wrong. I had a great day, a wonderful day. Actually, it's the best day I've had in a long time."

  "Then what is it?"

  "You've been giving me the full-court press since you got here, and we know what'll happen if I let you through that door. But you're leaving. And when you do, I'll be the one who's hurt afterward. So why start something you have no intention of finishing?"

  With someone else, with anyone else, he would have said something flippant or changed the subject until he figured out another way to get through her door. But as he looked at her on the porch, he couldn't form the words. Nor, strangely, did he want to.

  "You're right," he admitted. He forced a smile. "Let's call it a night. I should probably go find out where those lights are coming from, anyway."

  For a moment, she wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly, but when he took a small step backward, she caught his eye.

  "Thank you," she said.

  "Good night, Lexie."

  She nodded, and after an awkward pause, she turned toward the door. Jeremy took that as his signal to leave, and he stepped off the porch as Lexie took her keys from her jacket pocket. She was sliding the key into the door when she heard his voice behind her.

  "Hey, Lexie?" he called out.

  In the fog, he was nothing but a blur.

  "Yes?"

  "I know you may not believe it, but the last thing I want to do is hurt you or do anything that would make you regret that we've met."

  Though she smiled briefly at his comment, she turned away without a word. The lack of response spoke volumes, and for the first time in his life, Jeremy was not only disappointed in himself but suddenly wished he were someone else entirely.

  Eleven

  Birds were chirping, the fog had begun to thin, and a raccoon scurried across the bungalow porch when Jeremy's cell phone rang. The harsh gray light of early morning passed through the torn curtains, smacking him in the eye like a prizefighter's punch.

  A quick glance at the clock showed it was 8:00 a.m., way too early to talk to anyone, especially after pulling an all-nighter. He was getting too old for nights like that, and he winced before groping for the phone.

  "This better be important," he grumbled.

  "Jeremy? Is that you? Where have you been? Why haven't you called? I've been trying to reach you!"

  Nate, Jeremy thought, closing his eyes again. Good God, Nate.

  Meanwhile, Nate was going on. He had to be a long-lost relative of the mayor, Jeremy thought. Put these two in a room, hook them up to a generator while they talked, and they could power Brooklyn for a month.

  "You said you were going to keep in touch!"

  Jeremy forced himself to sit upright on the side of his bed, though his body was aching.

  "Sorry, Nate," he said. "I've just been tied up, and the reception isn't too good down here."

  "You've got to keep me filled in! I tried calling you all day yesterday, but I kept getting put through to your voice mail. You can't imagine what's going on. I've got producers hounding me left and right, coming to me for ideas about what you might want to discuss. And things are really moving. One of them suggested that you do a piece on these high-protein diets. You know, the ones that tell you that it's okay to eat all the
bacon and steaks you want and still lose weight."

  Jeremy shook his head, trying to keep up.

  "Wait? What are you talking about? Who wants me to talk about what diet?"

  "GMA. Who did you think I was talking about? Of course, I said I'd have to get back to them, but I think you'd be a natural at this."

  The man sometimes gave Jeremy a headache, and he rubbed his forehead.

  "I have no interest in talking about a new diet, Nate. I'm a science journalist, not Oprah."

  "So you put your own spin on it. That's what you do, right? And diets have something to do with chemistry and science. Am I right or am I right? Hell, you know I'm right, and you know me--when I'm right, I'm right. And besides, I'm just tossing out ideas here--"

  "I saw the lights," Jeremy interrupted.

  "I mean, if you have something better, then we can talk. But I'm flying blind here, and this diet thing might be a way to get your foot--"

  "I saw the lights," Jeremy said again, raising his voice.

  This time Nate heard him. "You mean the lights in the cemetery?" he asked.

  Jeremy continued to rub his temples. "Yeah, those lights."

  "When? Why didn't you call me? This gives me something to run with. Oh, please tell me you got it on film."

  "I did, but I haven't seen the tapes yet, so I don't know how they turned out."

  "So the lights are for real?"

  "Yeah. But I think I found out where they're coming from, too."

  "So it's not real . . ."

  "Listen, Nate, I'm tired, so listen for a second, will you? I went to the cemetery last night and saw the lights. And to be honest, I can see why some people consider them to be ghosts, because of the way they appear. There's a pretty interesting legend attached to them, and the town even has a tour planned for the weekend to capitalize on it. But after I left the cemetery, I went looking for the source and I'm pretty sure I found it. All I have to do is figure out how and why it happens when it does, but I have some ideas about that, too, and hopefully, I'll have it figured out by later today."

  Nate, for a rare moment, had nothing to say. Like the trained professional he was, however, he recovered quickly.

  "Okay, okay, give me a second to figure out the best way to play this. I'm thinking of the television folks here . . ."

  Who else would he be thinking of? Jeremy wondered.