I climbed into the ORES van, carefully sliding my newly acquired baseball bat between my seat and the door. The interior was nothing like the beat-up college shuttle buses I was used to. This thing looked like someone had gutted a tactical ambulance and rebuilt it for ghost hunting.
Metal cases and equipment lined both walls, screens displayed maps and what looked like energy readings, and the whole place smelled like hospital-grade disinfectant mixed with the sharp tang of ozone. The seats were stiff and utilitarian, upholstered in some kind of tough black fabric that probably repelled blood. Comforting.
Kobeni sat in the driver's seat, her back perfectly straight, hands at exactly ten and two on the wheel. She'd changed from her professional attire into a practical gray coat over a turtleneck, her glasses reflecting the dashboard lights as she systematically went through a pre-mission checklist on a tablet.
Brittany threw herself into the seat across from me, immediately kicking her feet up onto a metal storage container. A wall of equipment separated us from Kobeni, creating a private little hell in the back of the van.
Nobody spoke as the engine purred to life. We pulled away from Shinra House and into the night, the campus lights fading behind us. The silence stretched on, broken only by the occasional click of Kobeni tapping something on the dashboard.
One minute passed. Then two. Then three.
"Well, this is fun," I muttered, staring out the window at the streetlights blurring past.
Brittany snorted, then reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. A moment later, the van's speakers crackled to life with what I can only describe as someone shoving a microphone down a garbage disposal while a cat was being murdered nearby.
"What the hell is that?" I clapped my hands over my ears as the death metal shrieked through the van.
"Music," Brittany said, smirking as she cranked the volume higher.
"Are we trying to exorcise the phantoms or just give them a headache?" I reached for her phone. "Let me put on something that won't summon actual demons."
She slapped my hand away hard enough to sting. "Touch my phone and lose the hand, incubus."
"At least turn it down before my eardrums start bleeding."
"Oh, I'm sorry," she mocked, rolling her eyes. "Would you prefer something softer? Let's make the ghosts sad. That'll definitely make them less dangerous."
I reached for the AUX cord dangling from her phone. "Just let me—"
"No." She yanked it away. "You brought a baseball bat to a phantom fight. You lost all music privileges."
"It's a special baseball bat," I defended, patting the weapon beside me. "With... runes and stuff."
"It's a glorified stick."
"A stick that's going to save your life when—"
"Children." Kobeni's calm voice cut through our bickering. "Perhaps we could use this time productively?"
Brittany huffed but turned her music down to a level that merely threatened tinnitus rather than immediate deafness.
"Isaiah," Kobeni continued, her eyes never leaving the road, "the initial exorcism team reported anomalous cold spots throughout the building's east wing. What does that indicate?"
"Uh... that it's haunted?"
Brittany snorted.
"More specifically," Kobeni prompted.
I frantically searched my memory for anything useful from the case files I'd read. "Cold spots indicate... energy absorption. The phantom is drawing heat from the environment to manifest physically."
"Good," Kobeni nodded. "And what class of phantom would we expect based on the orphanage's history?"
"Class C or B," I answered, gaining confidence. "Probably a Remnant type, formed from the residual trauma of the fire. The reports mentioned voices and whispers, which suggests it can process and mimic human speech."
"Or it means the ghost is right behind you about to eat your face," Brittany chimed in, examining her black-painted nails.
"That's not in the manual," I said.
Kobeni cleared her throat. "Brittany's practical experience is valuable, Isaiah. The texts can only prepare you so much."
The van turned onto a narrow two-lane highway heading out of the city. The streetlights became sparser, and soon we were driving through darkness broken only by our headlights and the occasional passing car.
"Isaiah," Kobeni said after a few minutes of relative peace, "tell me the warning signs that indicate a phantom is preparing to attack."
"Sudden temperature drops of more than ten degrees, electromagnetic interference with electronics, visual distortions like blurring or shadow movement, and in some cases, a feeling of being watched or touched."
"And what is the recommended course of action?"
"Maintain a defensive posture, establish a barrier if possible, and attempt communication only if the phantom shows signs of sentience."
Brittany made a dismissive sound. "Here's the real answer: if your phone dies, your skin goes goosebumpy, and you feel like someone's breathing down your neck, you swing first and ask questions never."
"That's not exactly protocol," Kobeni said mildly.
"No, but it keeps you alive," Brittany countered. "I've seen shamans get their faces ripped off while trying to 'establish communication' with something that just wanted to eat them."
I looked between them. "Has that... happened a lot?"
"More than the textbooks mention," Brittany said. She leaned forward, suddenly serious. "Listen, Isaiah. I know I give you shit, but I don't actually want you dead. So please follow my lead. Got it?"
"Got it," I nodded, surprised by her sudden intensity.
The road began to climb, winding up into the foothills that bordered the city to the north. The trees grew thicker, pressing in on both sides of the road like a dark tunnel. My phone lost reception, the signal bars disappearing one by one.
"We're entering the dead zone," Kobeni said. "All standard communications will be unreliable from this point. We'll switch to the ORES secure channel." She pressed a button on the dashboard, and small blue lights illuminated on earpieces resting in a charging dock.
"I've done this a dozen times," Brittany said, noticing my gaze. "Still hate this part. The approach. The waiting. My neck starts itching like something's watching."
I nodded, looking out at the darkness. "I get places like this," I said quietly, the humor gone from my voice. "Spent a few years in a group home that wasn't much better. Old buildings with too many shadows. Never enough heat or light."
Brittany looked at me. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Different kind of ghosts, I guess. But the feeling's the same. Like the walls remember all the bad things that happened inside them."
A moment of silence passed between us.
"Sunnyvale." Brittany said, looking out the window.
"What?"
"My home. The bleach they used on the floors could strip paint"
I nodded. "Saint Michael's. Green tile floors. Always freezing, even in summer."
"Type shit."
The van rounded a bend in the road, and suddenly there it was. St. Ophelia's Orphanage stood on a barren hill, silhouetted against the night sky. The main building was a Victorian monstrosity, three stories of blackened stone and broken windows. One wing had partially collapsed, leaving a skeletal framework of charred beams.
Even from inside the van, I felt it. A pressure, a wrongness that made my skin crawl. My newly enhanced senses picked up something else too—a faint, discordant hum that seemed to vibrate in my teeth.
The dashboard lights flickered, then dimmed. The engine sputtered.
"The interference is stronger than reported," Kobeni said as she pulled over to the side of the road. The van shuddered once, twice, then died completely. "We'll need to proceed on foot from here."
Brittany was already gathering her gear, all business now. "Comms check," she said, inserting her earpiece.
I took one of the remaining earpieces and fitted it into my ear. A soft crackle, then Kobeni's voice came through with crystal clarity. "Channel secure."
"Distance to target?" Brittany asked, strapping what looked like a large tactical flashlight to her wrist.
"Approximately half a mile up the access road," Kobeni replied, pulling up a holographic map that glowed blue in the darkened van. "The east wing shows the highest concentration of activity. We'll enter through the south entrance, establish a base in the former administrative office, then move to contain the source."
I grabbed my baseball bat, suddenly acutely aware of how inadequate it seemed compared to Brittany's array of equipment.
"Isaiah," Kobeni said, her magenta eyes finding mine in the dim light. "Your primary objective is observation and energy absorption if required. Do not engage directly unless instructed." She handed me a small device that looked like a sleek black wristwatch. "This will monitor your vital signs and energy output. If you begin to lose control, it will alert us."
"You mean if I go full incubus," I said flatly.
"If your demonic energy becomes unstable," she corrected gently.
I strapped the device to my wrist, noticing the subtle glow of magical inscriptions around its edge. Great. A supernatural ankle monitor.
We exited the van into the cool night air. The orphanage loomed above us, a dark silhouette against the starlit sky. No lights, no signs of life, just an immense, brooding presence that seemed to watch us.
"Remember your training," Kobeni said. "Stay together. Trust your instincts."
"Don't die," Brittany added helpfully.
I gripped my bat tighter, feeling the weight of the inscribed metal in my palm. The orphanage waited for us, patient as only dead things can be.
"Let's go make some phantoms regret their life choices," I said, forcing confidence into my voice.
Brittany and I started up the hill, our flashlights carving weak paths through the darkness. With each step, the pressure in my head grew stronger, the discordant humming louder. Something in that building recognized me, called to me.
And as we walked, I couldn't shake the feeling that it was smiling.