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KALYNN BAYRON
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By Kalynn Bayron FOR OLDER READERS
Cinderella Is Dead Sleep Like Death This Poison Heart This Wicked Fate You’re Not Supposed to Die Tonight Make Me a Monster
FOR YOUNGER READERS
The Vanquishers The Vanquishers: Secret of the Reaping The Vanquishers: Rise of the Wrecking Crew Olive Oakes and the Haunted Carousel
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For the ghosts in my house. I love you all, but please keep the noise down at night.
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THE OCULUS
Paranormal Education and Investigation in the City of Portland MISSION STATEMENT
The things that go bump in the night are real. They exist whether you want to believe in them or not. Chances are, you will encounter at least some form of paranormal activity in your lifetime. That uneasy feeling you get when you’re alone in the dark, that dark figure you see out of the corner of your eye, those footsteps you hear when no one is there—they are all signs of something largely misunderstood, a world beyond the one we see every day. What we know for certain is that people fear what they do not understand. The Oculus aims to provide information, research, and insight into the phenomena of paranormal occurrences and to share that information in the name of understanding and maybe, one day . . . acceptance. From hauntings and poltergeist activity to the history of the spiritualist movement in the city of Portland to investigative services, you can find it all right here on The Oculus. We hope to bring a better understanding to the way paranormal activity intersects with our everyday lives. Please use the contact form to get in touch about investigative services! Happy hauntings!
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chapter 1
W
atching two psychics argue in the lobby of the Central Library in downtown Portland on a Wednesday after-
noon isn’t the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in this city, but it’s definitely in the top five. Neither of them speaks a single word aloud, but their body language tells the story of their conversation. Agnes throws her head back and laughs that laugh she does when she thinks someone is full of crap, and the head librarian, Mrs. Chambers, shoots her angry glances and presses her lips together so hard it looks like she doesn’t even have a mouth. Ossie and I sit together on a bench by the entryway. He leans over to me and cups his hands around my ear. “People are looking at them,” he says. “Should we tell them to stop?” The library is pretty much empty, but the few patrons at the self-checkout stations are staring. I clear my throat loudly, and both Agnes and Mrs. Chambers whip their heads around to stare at me. “Sorry,” I say. “It’s just—you two are attracting an audience.”
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Mrs. Chambers adjusts her neon-pink tie and clasps her hands together in front of her. “I’m willing to help,” she says, this time out loud. “But you’re going to have to do this my way.” “We’ll keep you anonymous,” Agnes says. “We need an interview about what you can do.” Mrs. Chambers looks around nervously. “I don’t know why you all want to be so open about this. Not everybody is so comfortable with their—gifts.” “I don’t think anybody really cares,” Agnes grumbles. “And that’s kind of my point. There’s a dude outside right now who tells everybody he can bend spoons with his mind and nobody believes him.” The guy is out there almost every time we come to the library. He shouts at anybody who gets within a few feet of him that he’ll show them something magical for the fee of one crisp dollar bill. That sounds wild as hell, so nobody takes him up on it. The thing is, he can bend spoons with his thoughts. He has telekinetic abilities, but nobody believes him, so nobody cares. I don’t know the stats on the number of people in Portland who have some kind of strange ability, but I’ve always thought that there are more of us than we realize. Most of us stay quiet because we don’t want to be looked at like we’ve lost our entire minds. “I don’t care what other people do,” Mrs. Chambers says softly. “I don’t want to talk about this like it’s not a big deal, like people won’t look at me differently if they know what I can do.” “I get that,” says Agnes. “I really do. But listen, Mrs. Chambers, we’re trying to help people. We’re just trying to let them know they’re not alone. You did that for me when I was younger.” Mrs. Chambers’s entire demeanor softens. She’s been a librarian at the Central Library since before any of us were born. When she and Agnes first met, I think they both recognized a 3
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little piece of themselves in each other. They shared an understanding. We all do. “I’ll participate,” Mrs. Chambers says. Agnes claps her hands together and everyone looks over at them again. Mrs. Chambers winces and then sighs. “I’ll participate, but only if you agree to keep my name private and if you agree to help me press up buttons for the children’s read-a-thon next month.” Agnes’s face scrunches up. “Sounds . . . boring.” Mrs. Chambers narrows her gaze at Agnes. “Take it or leave it.” “Fine,” Agnes says. “Deal.” Mrs. Chambers looks around, and the two of them fall back into silent communication. Five minutes later, Agnes is beaming, while Mrs. Chambers is shaking her head. “Now that that’s settled . . .” Mrs. Chambers glances over and catches Ossie’s eye. “Are you signing up for the read-a-thon?” “I thought the children’s read-a-thon was for kids under twelve?” Ossie says. “You’re twelve,” Mrs. Chambers says. Ossie gasps and dramatically puts his hand over his heart. “I’m thirteen.” Mrs. Chambers grins. “I beg your finest pardon. I didn’t know you were a teenager now.” Ossie looks at me like he’s absolutely disgusted. “It’s your baby-face,” I say to him. “You look younger than you are.” Ossie crosses his arms hard over his chest and huffs. “I’ll email you,” Agnes says to Mrs. Chambers as she joins me and Ossie on the bench. 4
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“Email who?” Redd comes sauntering up, brushing little flakes of his half-eaten croissant off his T-shirt. “Mrs. Chambers is gonna let us interview her,” I say. “Took a little coaxing from Agnes but I think it’s in the bag.” “Nice!” Redd offers his croissant and I finish it off in two bites. He presses his lips together. “I wanted you to take a bite, not eat the whole thing.” “Gotta be more specific next time,” I say. “Redd,” Ossie says. “How old do I look to you?” Redd glances at me, then back to Ossie. “I don’t know. Maybe eleven—?” Ossie stands up and his brow creases so hard his forehead looks like it might fold up on itself. Ever since Ossie turned thirteen, he’s been telling everybody within a ten-mile radius that he’s no longer a child. “Eleven?” he asks. “Really, Redd?” “Seventeen?” Redd says quickly. “Like me? I don’t know, Oz.” Redd looks desperately to me for some kind of guidance, and I just shake my head. “Seventeen, huh?” Ossie looks way too pleased with himself. “I can live with that.” Redd laughs and drapes his arm over my shoulders. “I’m excited about our first real-deal interview. This’ll be good for us.” Redd, Ossie, Agnes, and I had worked all through the summer to give the website we call The Oculus the distinction we think it deserves. There are a million sites about paranormal phenomena, but most of them are written by people who think lighting candles and using a Ouija board qualifies them to be paranormal investigators. We’ve spent our entire lives navigating the paranormal not because we have a passing interest in it or are trying to make a quick buck, but because each of us was 5
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born with a unique, and sometimes deadly, gift. While we’re not related by blood, something much stronger than that binds us.
< The city bus is always a hotbox of smells, but today as we make our way home from the library in a torrential downpour, I’m actually offended by how much it reeks. The driver doesn’t let us put the windows down, and at every stop, the doors open and a fine mist blows in, coating everything in a sticky dampness. It’s a petri dish for funk. A few of the lines aren’t running because of construction, and apparently, this bus is the one everyone wants to be on today. I shut my eyes and try to ignore the low hum that fills my ears. Agnes taps me on the shoulder and points to my braids. “Tell me again, who did them?” Agnes knows good and well Auntie Tonya did my hair, but she’s not going to pass up an opportunity to give me a hard time about it. “You already know the answer to that question,” I say. I can feel the disappointment emanating from Agnes. “I thought we weren’t going to her anymore.” Tonya’s our go-to when we can’t get in with our regular braider. She and my mom have been friends since they were kids. Tonya is heavy-handed and likes to cook and watch her stories while she does hair. What should take one solid day of braiding takes Auntie Tonya a few separate days, which means looking crazy for a while until it’s all done. When we were about twelve, she snatched Agnes’s scalp so tight she could barely close her eyes. We made a pact that once we were old enough to decide who was going to do our hair, we’d never set foot in Tonya’s house again. 6
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It’s been a while since I last saw her, and I’d thought maybe time would have given Tonya a lighter touch and better time management skills. But the way my scalp is throbbing, and the fact that it’s taken three days’ worth of trips to her house to get all the braids done, tells me I was wrong. Very, very wrong. “I’m broke,” I say. “And she said she’d do it for free if I bought her lunch and fixed her son’s computer.” Agnes shrugs. “I mean, who needs edges, right?” “Shut up,” I tease. “I don’t appreciate you going to get your hair done and not inviting me to go with.” Agnes reaches up and touches her freshly dyed dark purple hair. “This is the third time I’ve colored it in, like, six months. I honestly thought it was gonna fall out, and I didn’t want you to see what I look like bald.” She pushes aside her hair, revealing her lighter purple undercut, and beams. “I feel like this is the haircut you get when you want everybody to know you’re super gay and you don’t care who knows it.” “I mean, you are super gay.” I shrug. “So it works, right?” Agnes grins. “Super gay sounds a lot like Superman. I’m basically a superhero.” “All you need is a spandex outfit,” Ossie chimes in. “I can’t fit all this in a spandex super-suit,” Agnes says, sliding her hand playfully over her hip. “Thick thighs save lives. That’s my motto.” Ossie scrunches up his nose. “Can we stop talking about thighs? I’m just a baby.” “Oh, I thought you were grown?” Agnes says. “Not that grown,” says Ossie. Redd leans close to me. “You two have been getting your hair done together since you were little?” he asks. “That’s cute.” 7
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His expression is curious and if I’m being honest, a little sad. He doesn’t like to admit it but he feels like an outsider even among other outsiders like us. He hasn’t been with us very long, and when little things, like me and Agnes dealing with Auntie Tonya most of our lives, come up, he’s reminded that he might be out of place here, too. I try to take every opportunity I can to let him know he belongs. That’s all any of us have ever really wanted. The bus stops and two more people get on. Everything feels closer now. And the colors—the colors are so bright. My heart ticks up. A little girl with a bright pink streak in her hair and a unicorn horn strapped to her head teeters on the edge of her seat a few rows ahead of me. At her chest is a ball of luminous energy. Every person on the bus has one, but hers is the only one that’s a deep shade of evergreen. Only very young kids have that color. It’s the color of pure, unfiltered joy, before the world whispers the things that will turn those colors to the sallow yellows of fear, the fiery red hues of anger, the icy blues of sadness and self-doubt. I’ve always been able to see people’s colors. My earliest memories are of my mom partially blotted out by the big green bloom at her chest. Other memories, other colors, are more complicated. I remember the exact moment I learned that my gift wasn’t limited to what I could see, but that I also had the ability to control it. Carrie Anne Flescher, my first grade bully, hated everything about me. My hair was too puffy when it was loose, but then when it was braided, she’d make fun of the little plastic beads my mom put on the ends. One day, while she was ki-kiing herself into a fit over my clean but clearly hand-me-down outfit, I willed her colors to a dull gray out of pure exhaustion. 8
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I stared at the ball of green at her chest while she laughed and I wished she would just . . . stop. Her colors faded to a dull gray and she dropped to the floor like a rock. My teacher had to call an ambulance. Carrie Anne recovered, but I’ve been in online school ever since. A group of college-age students sit toward the front of the bus. They laugh and joke and a big burst of green lights up everything around them. I shut my eyes tight and take a deep breath. Redd nudges my shoulder with his, and I turn to look at him. He has his shirt pulled up over his nose. “Smells like something died in here,” he says. “Probably a person,” says Ossie. The bus stops and a tall man wearing camo pants and a shirt that looks like someone made it out of an American flag gets on. A fiery red ball—anger—smolders at his chest. It never ceases to amaze me how many people walk around just furious at the world, waiting for the opportunity to take it out on someone else. “What’s his problem?” Redd asks, following my gaze. “He looks like he racked up at the Army surplus store.” I push the air out between my teeth. “There are too many people in here,” I say as my pulse creeps up. Redd’s easygoing nature is blunted by a look of concern. “I haven’t seen it this packed in a while,” he says. “It’s the weather, the construction, maybe both.” We all know why that’s a problem, but none of us wants to say it out loud. I glance back at Agnes to check her colors, and she is, as is almost always the case, calm and thoughtful. Almost in a meditative state, which manifests as a tightly coiled mass of solid black right in the center of her chest. 9
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The man in the flag shirt leans down over a woman with a little kid on her lap. “Get up and let me sit.” The woman looks up at him and blinks repeatedly. “Excuse me?” “You heard me,” the man grumbles. The woman looks around as other people on the bus pretend they don’t see what’s happening. She pulls her child closer to her. “I’m not moving.” The red ball at his chest shifts, intensifies until it’s almost glowing. The anger pulses out of him in a wave of concentrated energy, and it hits me like a fist. I suck in a chest full of air, letting it slide between my lips. I dig my fingers into Redd’s arm as I turn away from the man. “Don’t let it in, Moll,” Redd says under his breath. He reaches up and rings the bell to signal we want to get off. “Next two stops are closed due to construction,” the driver calls out. “Great,” I say as the angry man gets more and more agitated. Most of the time people’s emotions don’t directly affect me. But if I don’t keep my guard up, those emotions seep into me and make me want to turn a person’s colors gray as a stormy sky. My mom says it’s a defense mechanism, that I’m just trying to protect myself, but that I have to learn to control it. That’s easier said than done. I see the red. I hear the man’s angry tone as he continues to insist that the woman and her baby get up so he can sit down. My skin pricks up and I imagine the man’s energy turning as gray and heavy as a stone. He straightens up, grabs at his collar like his shirt is too tight. I stare at the ball of red on his chest and—I can’t help it.
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It begins to gray around the edges. My power pools inside me like a tightly coiled spring. I let it expand a little more, reaching out. His red flickers. I know that I could hurt him if I push—and I do. I let the coil unfurl just a little. The man’s eyes glass over. He stumbles and falls hard on his back. People step away from him, confused, but I only stare at the watery red-and-gray orb at his chest. Another push and he’d never get up, but an uncomfortable pressure in my chest stops me. “Moll,” Redd says, desperation in his tone. “Moll, please.” His voice snaps me out of my own head. I breathe in, count to ten, and then picture the man’s colors turning green. A tingling feeling creeps up my back and settles in the nape of my neck. I concentrate as hard as I can, blocking out all the other sounds, all the other colors, and slowly, the reds and grays turn to green. The man sits bolt upright and then shakily rises to his feet. The woman with the baby watches him, bewilderment rippling across her face. “It’s so goddamned lovely out, isn’t it?” he asks, looking out at the pouring rain. “So lovely.” Redd exhales, then leans in close to me. “That man just said lovely—twice. He’s good now, right?” I nod. The bus comes to a stop as Redd pulls me toward the door. Agnes and Ossie pile out beside us, and we all watch as the bus drives off. Redd eyes me carefully. “That was too close.” I grip my hands together to keep them still. I’m trembling all over. I need to get ahold of myself. The guy on the bus was an angry, rude asshole and I almost killed him. I hate myself for letting it get away from me like that. “Let’s take the car next time,” Redd says.
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“You want us to die?” Ossie asks. I scowl at him. “My driving isn’t that bad.” “Yes it is,” says Ossie. “And you know it.” “Are you okay?” Agnes asks. She knows better than any of us how important it is to keep a lid on our abilities, especially in public. I’m disappointed in myself. I shouldn’t have let my imagination go that far. “I’m good,” I lie. “Let’s just go home.” The rain has let up and slugs are creeping their way across the pavement, leaving behind translucent trails of slime. The torrent of rain makes even healthy green leaves fall to the ground, and the little slimy creatures take refuge in the crooks of their overturned blades. We trudge down our street and up the front steps of our house. The porch always sags a little more than usual when the rain is heavy. The boards groan under my feet as I ease onto them. I hope today isn’t the day the whole thing collapses. Once we’re all safely inside, we kick off our shoes and Redd and Ossie go upstairs, while Agnes plops down on the couch. Music blares—Billie Holiday singing about summertime and how someone’s gonna take to the sky. I hang my coat on the hook in the front hallway and go into the kitchen, where my mom is trying to stop a pot of water from boiling over. She blows across the top, pushing the mound of bubbles over the edge and onto the eye of the stove, where it sizzles and pops. “Burning water again?” I ask. She glances at me and pushes the pot off the burner. “You ever consider taking up clownery full-time?” There’s the slightest edge of annoyance in her voice. Mom’s sense of humor is the kind that makes people uncomfortable. They can’t always tell if she’s joking or not. I can, though. I see the telltale flicker 12
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of green right in the center of her chest—happiness. Her gaze sweeps over me, and she tilts her head to the side. “I feel like I haven’t seen you. Y’all been out all day.” “We went to the library,” I say. I don’t tell her why. “What are you making?” Some lettuce and tomatoes sit soggy in a glass bowl on the counter. “Pasta, salad, and—” She stops short and rolls her eyes. “And bread!” She brushes past me and pulls open the oven. A thick plume of black smoke billows out and I back up, cupping my hand over my mouth and nose. She fumbles with a pair of bright orange oven mitts as she pulls out what looks like a large charcoal briquette and dumps it into the sink. I quickly flip up the faucet handle, and a cloud of gray steam rises, mingling with the smoke from the oven. “That was bread?” I ask, examining what’s left. “Yeah.” The dark hollows under her eyes and the hazy outline of her colors mean she hasn’t been sleeping well. She rests her hand on the counter and smiles warmly at me. I step close to her, laying my head on her bare shoulder. The scent of the lemon ginger soap and coconut lotion she makes by hand wraps me up like a warm blanket. “Pizza, then?” she asks. She pulls up her tangle of goddess locs adorned with little silver cuffs, and the shoulder strap of her shirt slips down. A tattoo removal gone wrong has left her with a shiny, darkened scar below her collarbone. She quickly readjusts her shirt. “Pizza sounds good,” I say. There’s no way any of her meal can be salvaged anyway. “Make sure you get something vegan for Agnes,” Mom says. “She’ll have a fit if anything meaty touches what she’s eating.” 13
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An hour later our pizza is delivered, and we sprawl out on the living room floor watching some show about ancient aliens. “These guys don’t give human beings enough credit,” Mom says. “Come on, Hannigan,” Agnes says. “Those hieroglyphs show a dude wearing a watch. How’d they even know about watches?” Mom rolls her eyes. “It looks like a bracelet to me.” My phone buzzes, and my heart sputters when I see it’s an email via the contact form on our website. I slip the phone back into my pocket and try to hold it together as a surge of excitement rushes through me. “Everything okay?” Mom asks. “Yeah,” I say. “It’s just some spam email tryna tell me I won a million dollars, but I gotta give them my bank account information so they can send it to me.” “That is a scam, Moll,” she says, her tone serious. “Oh, but I already gave them my bank info and my social security number and everything,” I tease. My mom laughs. “Yeah, okay. They’re gonna be sorely disappointed when they find out you have twenty-seven dollars to your name.” Ossie bursts out laughing and even Redd is chuckling to himself. “Y’all just calling me broke and laughing about it?” I ask. “How much money do you have?” Agnes asks, narrowing her gaze at Ossie. He quiets himself. “I mean, none.” “That’s what I thought,” Agnes says. She winks at me and I grin obnoxiously at Ossie. “Enough of the aliens and Moll being a brokey,” Mom says. 14
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“Hey,” I say. “Not too much on me.” Mom slips out from under her blanket and gives me a kiss on the top of my head. “I’m going to go lie down,” she says. “Where’s my kiss, Hannigan?” Ossie asks. “Have you brushed your teeth at all today?” Agnes asks. Ossie grins. “That’s my business.” Mom’s smile is tired but warm as she retreats to her room. She’s been spending more and more time there lately. As soon as she closes her bedroom door, I jump up and dive into the couch next to Redd. “Damn!” Redd yelps. “Shhh!” I hush him. I motion for Agnes and Ossie to join us, and they gather around. “I got an email through the site. The subject line says, I could really use some help.” Everyone’s colors fluoresce bright green. I try to steady my hand as I open the email and read it in a whisper. “Hello! My name is Professor Louis Price. I teach acting in the Theater Department at Portland State University, and I’m dealing with a unique issue. Your site says you offer investigative services, so I’m hoping you can help me. Please contact me if it would be possible to meet.” He leaves his phone number at the bottom of the email. “This is it,” Agnes says excitedly. “Our chance to do a real paranormal investigation.” I don’t want to waste any time. “I’ll email him so we can set up a meeting.” “Wait a minute,” says Redd. “Are we even ready for this? Do we have everything we need?” “I mean, no, but we have enough,” I say. “It’s the perfect time to work out all the kinks, so when we start doing bigger investigations, we’ll be prepared.” 15
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Redd looks doubtful. “Are we going to document it for The Oculus?” “I’d like to,” I say. “We’ll have to ask this Professor Price guy if that’s okay.” “Writing articles on our website is one thing,” says Agnes. “It’s something else to post videos. What if we catch something on film and it goes viral? Then Hannigan will find out for sure.” We sit in silence for a moment. I don’t think enough people visit our website to make anything we post go viral, but even still—that’s not how I want my mom to find out what we’re doing. Researching the paranormal reminds me that I’m not alone. That none of us are. Me and Agnes, Redd, and Ossie, we all feel like we’re on the outside looking in, but it’s only because people don’t understand. They don’t believe. But if we can make them see, maybe one day we won’t have to harbor our abilities like some terrible secret. That’s where The Oculus comes in. It can be a source for serious paranormal investigation and information, but at every turn my mom is there to send us in the opposite direction, so we can’t let her in on it. Not yet.
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PORTLAND’S MOST HAUNTED PLACES May 2026
Portland is home to all things strange, wonderful, and unique. It’s also home to some of the most haunted places on the entire West Coast. Lone Fir Cemetery—Established in 1855, this 30-acre cemetery is the final resting place for over 25,000 souls. Lone Fir is the burial site of Ben Macomb, noted spiritualist and founder of the Portland Society for Spiritual Wellbeing. The Tinseltown Theater—Opened in 1920, the Tinseltown Theater has been the site of numerous murders and fatal accidents. Patrons recount hearing disembodied voices and footsteps, and even seeing shadowy figures lurking in the halls. Pittock Mansion—Construction on this historic home started in 1909 and finished in 1914. Of the 80,000 people that visit the mansion every year, hundreds of visitors report seeing ghostly apparitions of members of the Pittock family. Henry Pittock is thought to be the ghost behind several strange occurrences, such as a painting of his wife, Georgiana Burton Pittock, that moves locations on its own, the locking and unlocking of doors, and rearranging furniture on the main floor. 17
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The Crystal Ballroom—Built in 1914 and originally called Cotillion Hall, the Crystal Ballroom is home to no fewer than twenty separate and distinct entities. In the summer of 1975, an employee and several students from a local dance troupe heard music in the ballroom and went to investigate. They were met by a man who pulled one of the young dancers into a waltz. When the music stopped, the man vanished, leaving the group shaken and scared out of their minds. The next day, when they reported the incident, giving a description of the man to the owner, he took the troupe to a portrait hanging in the upper hall. The troupe positively identified the portrait’s subject as the man they had encountered. The man was Montrose Ringler, the original owner of the ballroom . . . who had been dead for fourteen years.
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CHAPTER 2
I
email Professor Price, and he writes back to tell us we can meet him at the riverwalk Friday night at six to discuss his
case. When the day rolls around, I’m a ball of nerves. I tell my mom we’re going to see some live music in Pioneer Courthouse Square. Keeping my mom in the dark isn’t something I’m proud of, but she’s drawn a hard line when it comes to our interest in the paranormal, and that’s a line I cross more often than I’d like to admit. She lets me take the car but first subjects me to a twentyminute lecture about driving safely. If listening to her speech means I don’t have to get on the bus with dozens of people, their emotions all shining like colorful suns, I’m good with that. Mom’s Chevrolet Chevelle, midnight black, with two white stripes down the front, is the one thing besides the house that has any real value. It’s in mint condition, and I cringe at the thought of listening to the gears grind as I struggle with the five-speed manual transmission. When I was learning to drive, I had to stop on a hill and couldn’t balance the clutch and gas enough to keep from rolling backward. Almost gave my mom a heart attack.
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“Why can’t we get a Prius or something?” asks Ossie. “Nah,” says Agnes, rounding the car and opening the passenger side door. “Our neighbor has that electric station wagon thing and it sounds like a unicorn fart when he turns it on.” Agnes flips the passenger seat forward and Ossie scrambles into the back. “Hannigan will never let this thing go,” Redd says as he slips between my seat and the doorframe. “Better take good care of it.” I turn the key, and the engine sounds like some angry beast waking up from a nightmare. I throw it in reverse, then immediately slam on the brakes, sending Agnes straight into the dash. “The hell?” She rubs her shoulder, the black orb on her chest flickering slightly before settling back into its inky black state of calm. I exhale slowly. She’s got a handle on it. I point to the rearview mirror. Mom is standing in the glow of the taillights. She moves to the driver’s side window and I roll it down. “Everybody got on seat belts?” she asks. “I’m actually against seat belts,” Ossie says. “I like to slide around in the seat.” Mom shoots him her keep-playing-with-me-if-you-want-to look. “You wanna slide up to your room with no electronics for a week?” Ossie points to his already fastened belt. “Kidding.” “Everybody feeling—together?” She glances in at us, one by one. She isn’t psychic like Agnes. She doesn’t have the ability to see feelings like I do, but she has that power that a lot of parents have—she can just sense when something is off. “Remember everything we’ve worked on. Keep yourselves in check.” 20
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“We will. I promise,” I say, knowing it’s not a promise I can keep. Not fully, anyway. She flashes me a tight smile and goes back inside. “Don’t crash, Moll,” says Ossie. “Hannigan will lose it if you dent her baby.” Redd muffles a laugh. I already know I’m in for a bunch of unnecessary jokes about my driving, and I’m not in the mood today. “I’m not going to crash. Just shut up so I can concentrate.” I glance in the rearview mirror and see nothing but a glowing green haze. “Do you mind taking it down a notch?” “Oh, right,” Redd says. “Sorry.” Redd sits back, closing his eyes and reining himself in. Ossie tries his best to be quiet but can’t keep from giggling, even with his hand pressed over his mouth. It’s enough to mute their colors and at least allow me to see out the rear window. I back out of the drive and turn onto our street. The stop sign comes into view, and my heart speeds up a little. “Dun, dun, dun,” Ossie says. “Shut up!” I swipe at his leg. He dodges me, laughing himself into a fit. I bring the car to a full stop and then lurch through the sign, almost stalling before I get it under control again. “See, Moll. Not bad at all,” Agnes says. She knows how to put me right at ease. At eighteen, two years older than me, she’s more levelheaded than I will ever be, but she has a very good reason to be. “Not bad?” Ossie asks. “Really?” “Ossie, you drive a bike,” Agnes says. “Hush.” Ossie’s playful little smirk disappears, and he flops back, little ribbons of red encircling the ball of energy at his chest. 21
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On Friday nights the streets are usually a little too crowded for me. Heavy traffic always brings out the absolute worst in people. Nestled among the green bursts of color, from people on their happy way to the movies or dinner, are pockets of red. Not Crayola red, and not regular rose red either. The red that accompanies traffic-induced anger is the color of blood— so deep it’s almost black. And sure enough, when I pass by these little pockets of rage, there’s someone screaming, shooting somebody the bird, or on the edge of getting out and fighting the person in front of them for cutting them off or driving too slow. Portland is the city of roses, of bridges—the place where I can buy a vegan PB&J donut and watch two guys dressed in full Stormtrooper cosplay get married on a Tuesday night. It’s the home of all things quirky and strange and wonderful. It also happens to be a place where people’s emotions run unchecked and unfiltered. This city has an effect on me that will not be ignored. I squeeze into a parking spot two blocks from South Waterfront Park. In Driver’s Ed, they say it should only take three movements to parallel park—forward, back, forward—but it takes me at least twelve, and by the end of it I’m way more than a foot away from the curb. Ossie puckers his lips like he’s about to say something. “Don’t,” I say. “Not now, Ossie.” “Fine,” he says, pouting. “What’s the plan?” Agnes asks. “We have to be careful.” I shoot Ossie a pointed glance. “This is just a meeting to try and feel things out. We don’t say anything to my mom until we know two things for sure—what he’s asking us to do, and if we’re gonna do it.” 22
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Redd nods. “If he wants us to do a full-on investigation, we’re going to have to tell Hannigan.” “I don’t even know what that conversation’s going to sound like,” says Agnes. “She’s never going to be cool with us doing this kind of stuff.” “We’ll figure that part out later,” I say. “Let’s start by talking to Professor Price.” When we get to the meeting spot, I see an older man wearing a faded T-shirt with the word “Wicked” across the front in big green letters. He stands near the rail, gazing across the Willamette River as it slaps up against the retaining wall. “Miss Cabot?” he asks, looking a little confused as we approach. “Call me Moll,” I say. “This is Agnes, Redd, and Ossie.” “It’s good to meet you.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You’re not what I was expecting.” “We’re not?” Redd asks. Professor Price runs his hand through his neatly styled saltand-pepper hair. “I’m not sure. You all look a little young.” I was afraid this would happen. We are young but I don’t think that should matter. Nobody is better equipped to do this work than us. “Listen,” I say. “If I’m being honest, we’re pretty new to investigating, but we’re professionals. If you give us a chance, I’m sure we can help.” I hope I’m not laying it on too thick, but Professor Price smiles warmly and nods. “Everybody’s gotta start somewhere, right?” he asks. The ball of emotions at his chest is green. His whole personality seems pretty easygoing. “What can we help you with?” I ask. 23
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“I teach acting,” he says. “I spend a lot of time in the Lincoln Performance Hall on campus. We had a workshop the other night and I saw—something. It wasn’t the first time either. I’m not sure what to do.” A yellow ball of fear erupts at his chest, and he clasps his hands as his colors swirl together. “Don’t be afraid, Professor,” I say. Redd shoots me a look before gently putting his hand on Professor Price’s shoulder. “You’re okay,” Redd says. “You’re not afraid.” “I—I’m not?” Professor Price asks. Redd shakes his head. “No. You’re good.” Professor Price takes a deep breath, and his eyes get a little glassy, like he’s completely relaxed. I will his colors to change, threading ribbons of flat black calm through the yellow ball on his chest. Between me and Redd, we’ve got the professor feeling like he’s on a cloud. “What did you see?” I ask. “A man,” he says, his voice much lower than it had been before, his breathing slower, more measured. “I was onstage, stacking the folding chairs. I looked out into the auditorium, and about four rows back, I saw him sitting there. I was embarrassed that I hadn’t noticed him come in.” A thin filament of orange, the color of raging embarrassment, snakes through his kaleidoscope of colors. “I asked him if he needed something,” Professor Price continues. “I thought maybe he was a student or maybe a faculty member who’d stayed behind. He didn’t answer, and when I walked downstage to ask again, he stood up and he, well, he opened his mouth.” Ossie scratches the top of his head. “Was his breath stank or something?” Redd puts his hand on Ossie’s shoulder, and Ossie clamps his mouth shut. 24
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“His mouth was hanging open,” Professor Price says. “Like—like his jaw had come apart at the hinge.” A brilliant flash of yellow fear fully consumes the ball at his chest. It’s so bright I have to shut my eyes for a moment. I can feel the fear on him . . . like it’s on me, too. The hair on the back of my neck stands straight up. It’s like my body knows what he’s saying is true, or at least he believes it’s true. “The noise that came out of him—it was like a wounded animal.” Professor Price is shaking now. He rubs the tops of his arms as if it’s cold outside, but it’s pushing seventy today. “It was the most gut-wrenching, terrible moan you’ve ever heard. And then—he—he turned around and was gone. He vanished into thin air.” The professor snaps his fingers. “Just like that.” “He disappeared?” Redd asks, stunned. Professor Price nods. “Right in front of me. I almost shit myself, I was so scared.” He glances at Ossie. “Excuse my language.” “You’re excused,” Ossie says. Redd slides his hand down Ossie’s face and covers his mouth. Even with half his face covered, I can tell he’s grinning behind Redd’s fingers. “Right,” I say, trying to square what Professor Price is saying with what I’ve learned during my work on The Oculus. “Right. Okay. Anything else?” I quickly remind myself that I’m supposed to be acting like I actually know what I’m doing. “Some of my students have heard voices, footsteps, seen shadows where there shouldn’t be,” Professor Price says. “I can’t keep track of it all. I contacted you because I didn’t see anything on your site about filming. Most investigators want to film for their shows. I don’t really want this out in the public.” 25
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I’m a little disappointed. I really want to get some footage to put up on the website. “Why don’t you want it documented?” I ask. Professor Price raises an eyebrow. “Can you imagine me going to the dean and explaining that our theater is not only haunted but it’s all over the internet?” “Maybe it’ll bring in more students,” says Ossie. “I’d love to go to a haunted school.” “Anyways,” I say, drawing out the word and side-eyeing Ossie. I really want to do this, so I offer Professor Price a compromise. “The only filming we’ll do will be for our own research. We’ll only share it with you.” It’s not exactly what I want, but this is just a trial run, a chance to work out the kinks in our operation. “Please, Professor. No one is more qualified to do this than us.” “And why is that?” he asks. I press my mouth into a hard line. I can’t tell him it’s because Agnes is a psychic and I can see and manipulate people’s emotions, and Redd has the power of suggestion, and Ossie—well, I don’t even know how I’d put Ossie’s power into words. “There’s a world that exists just at the edges of our own, Professor,” I say. “And we want to help people see it.” It’s the best answer I can give him and it’s mostly true. Professor Price lowers his voice and steps closer to me. “Let’s say you find something. Can you make whatever it is go away?” A lot of people are like Professor Price. They’re afraid and they would rather ignore the unknown or just make it go away altogether instead of trying to understand it. “We can try to clear the space,” I say tentatively, “but I can’t make any promises. We might be able to help you understand what’s happening there better, though. Are you up for that?” 26
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Professor Price sighs. “I guess that’s all I can really ask for. I am at a loss for what to do.” He smiles and a little wisp of green melds with the yellow in the ball. We agree to come by the theater as soon as we can. He’ll put our name on the visitors list and block off a few hours so that no one else will be in the space. When the professor leaves, Redd and Ossie sit down on a bench and Agnes stretches out on the grass, leaning back on her hands. “Do you really think he saw a ghost?” Ossie asks. “He wasn’t lying,” I say. “His colors were mostly yellow, no white, but there’s only one way we’re gonna know for sure.” “So, we’re doing this?” Agnes asks. “We have to,” I say. “And we’re not worried that we’ve never officially done this before?” Redd asks. “No, and you know why?” I ask. Redd and Agnes exchange glances. “Because we’ve done the work,” I say. “We’ve researched almost every haunting in this city. We’ve looked at every legit paranormal investigation. And we have ourselves, the things we can do. There are, like, twelve ghost-hunting shows on TV right now with a bunch of fake-emo dudes who have no real qualifications for dealing with the paranormal. There’s gotta be somebody who’s doing it for the right reason and not just for views. Why can’t that be us?” A thunderous barrage of footsteps shakes the ground under my feet and I glance up. Coming down the pathway is a group of dragon boat enthusiasts a hundred deep. They have signs and are hootin’ and hollerin’ and making all kinds of noise. I glance out over the river. The colorful dragon boats and their teams of paddlers swing into place. A burst of color blooms 27
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bright as the group of people break into a chorus of laughter. I quickly turn my back to them, but I can see the remnants of their colors on the farthest edges of my vision. Redd is at my side before I can blink twice. “Hey, Moll, have you finished your classes for the week? How’s that art history class coming?” Redd’s tone is flat, calm. I try to clear my head, focus on his voice, on the mundane question he’s asking me. Another burst of color ripples out into the air around me. “It’s good,” I say. “It’s—it’s one of my favorite classes.” I breathe in deeply and exhale a full count of five. I search for Agnes in the crowd as more and more people spill into the grassy area. She’s headed toward the car, dragging Ossie along behind her. “I thought your computer was giving you trouble.” Redd looks past me, his face a mask of calm. He sways back and forth, like a really slow metronome. I count in my head each time his body rocks to the side. One. Two. One. Two. “It—it was the hard drive,” I say. “But I replaced it. It works better than when it was new.” “Could you fix mine?” he asks. He keeps his hand on my shoulder and moves me through the crowd, toward the street. Easier now. I’m breathing long and steady, focusing on Redd’s big brown eyes. “Is it plugged in?” I ask. He chuckles. “I mean, if we get home and it’s not plugged in, I don’t even deserve your help.” “I’ll look at it,” I say.
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Amid the crush of bodies is an uncomfortable brightness, like when I had my eyes dilated by the optometrist and decided to ditch the silly plastic glasses when I stepped outside. My temples throb. I struggle to find the rhythm in my breath. Bursts of green in all shades, fern and olive, lime and basil, all shades of happiness. It pushes in on me, and something inside me pushes back, but there is a vise around my chest. Just like on the bus. “No,” I whisper to myself. “Not here. Not now.” As we approach the car, the background noise fades. I feel like I can breathe a little easier. Redd gives my arm a gentle squeeze and a knowing little glance as we leave the crowd behind. Ossie is in the car, his face pressing up against the glass, a mischievous grin splits his face. Agnes is leaning against the door. “You good?” she asks. I nod. “You?” I check her colors. They’re flat black, calm. “Yeah,” she says. “Those people came outta nowhere.” “Did you kill anybody?” Ossie asks from behind the glass. “Ossie, shut up,” Redd says, clearly annoyed. “We all held it together. Hannigan would be proud.” Agnes purses her lips. “Almost all of us held it together.” She glances down at a large rat as it skids under the car. Redd almost knocks me over as he throws open the car door and jumps in, sitting as far away from Ossie as the back seat will allow. “Stop playin’, Ossie!” The ball on Redd’s chest turns bright yellow with fear. Ossie laughs himself half to death in the back seat, his plume of green so big it blots out the entire inside of the car. Agnes and I pile in.
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“Knock it off, Ossie,” Agnes says. “I can’t help it,” Ossie says. In the rearview mirror I see a thin tendril of white snake through the green at his chest. He’s lying, but not completely. Our abilities run up and down a spectrum of strange. Clairvoyance on one end and Ossie’s ability—controlling pestilent creatures, especially rats—at the other. Ossie stares at Redd. “Did you know that when you’re scared of mice and rats, it’s called musophobia? You’re a musophobe.” “I’m ignoring you,” Redd says, still refusing to turn in Ossie’s direction. “You did good, Moll. Keeping it together in that crowd. I know it’s hard, but you did good.” “Thanks to you,” I say. The way he stood with me, the magic he worked with those random questions—that’s his gift in action. He can distract someone from thinking about their problems. He can make them forget what they’re supposed to be doing. He can even put a suggestion in someone’s head that consumes their every thought, so much that they can’t eat or sleep. But if he isn’t careful, he can make people forget other things, like how to breathe. Sometimes I need someone to help me focus. Redd is my calm in a kaleidoscope of colors.
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INVESTIGATIVE EQUIPMENT June 2026
Investigating the paranormal sometimes calls for the use of specialized equipment. Prominent figures in the earliest days of paranormal investigating actually came up with rudimentary versions of the equipment we use today. Harry Sheen, a skeptic who used his tools to debunk spiritualists, invented a voice recorder much like the ones we use to detect EVPs. And Sarah Winthrup, a powerful psychic and figurehead of the earliest spiritualist movements in the city of Portland, invented a technique of using a camera to capture spirits on film. For a long time, people interested in paranormal investigation had to make their own equipment. We still do, but many of these tools can now be purchased online. EVP (Electronic Voice Phenomena) Meter—A simple audio recorder that can capture voices and sounds of a paranormal nature. Often, EVP is only audible during playback of captured audio. EMF (Electromagnetic Frequency) Meter—A device that measures electromagnetic fields. Since it’s thought that paranormal entities have the ability to manipulate these fields, sudden spikes could be a sign of a presence. Mel Meter—Invented by Gary Galka after losing his beloved daughter Melissa (affectionately called Mel by her family) in a car accident. He became convinced that she was trying to 31
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communicate with him from beyond the grave. Gary began researching paranormal investigatory tools and realized that there were no tools designed specifically for contacting ghosts, so he invented one, and the Mel Meter was born. It reads temperature and EMF simultaneously. FLIR (Forward Looking Infrared) Camera—A handheld thermal device used to visualize temperature fluctuations in the environment. Paranormal entities affect the air temperature around them, often showing up as cold spots on the FLIR. SLS (Structured Light Sensor) Camera—A camera that projects hundreds of infrared beams into a space, creating a grid. The camera’s sensors measure the distance between dots to create a 3D render of its visible field. This type of camera does not use light or color, but movement, which it then tracks. Living people and the ghosts of the deceased often show up as stick-figure-like images. Static Camera—A fixed camera. Static cams are placed throughout sites that are being investigated to capture images automatically. Spirit Box—A device that uses radio frequency sweeps to create white noise, which paranormal investigators believe entities can use to communicate. When this happens, it is possible to hear spirit voices.
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