Zhara Fuller leaned over the makeshift table set up with an array of tools designed for the unique task at hand—pendulums, crystal balls, and even a modern electronic spirit box that looked oddly incongruous among the ancient artifacts. Her hand hovered above the spirit box, fingers trembling as she steeled herself for what lay ahead.
“I’m going in,” she announced, flicking the switch. The machine hummed to life, emitting a series of garbled static, like the murmurs of long-lost souls trapped between realms.
“Spirits who reside in the Grand Anomaly Hotel, I seek to negotiate,” Zhara spoke into the box. “Reveal yourselves so we may find a peaceful resolution.”
The spirit box crackled, indistinct shapes forming momentarily in the noise before dissolving. Zhara waited with bated breath.
Suddenly, a voice cut through the static, speaking directly into her mind with chilling clarity. “There will be no negotiation, only oblivion.”
Zhara suppressed a shudder but kept her voice calm. “That isn’t the case. You took hostages, which means you have demands, and I want the safe release of the innocent people you’re holding. Help me to understand who you are, why you’re doing this, and what you want.”
“We have what we want,” the voice laughed, a hollow echoing sound. “Their souls will feed our wrath.”
“If you harm them, the police will stop you with force, which is something neither of us wants,” Zhara said. “We can work out a quid pro quo. You give us what we want, we give you what you need. That starts with you telling me what it is you want. Is it freedom? Are you tired of being trapped in the hotel? If you release the hostages now, I swear I will find a way to set you free. You have my word.”
The spirit box erupted with deafening screeches and then went dead. Zhara’s eyes widened as a horrifying sight manifested outside the hotel. A spectral projection appeared, translucent but vivid—a projection of one of the hostages, her face contorted in agony. A deathly shriek escaped her lips, reverberating across the empty street before she evaporated in a cloud of mist.
She failed. Someone died under her watch. Again.
“Turn that damn thing off!” Detective Ross shouted, lunging forward to flick off the spirit box. His eyes met Zhara’s, cold and unforgiving. “You just got someone killed.”
“We didn’t know this would happen,” she countered, her voice shaky. “I was trying to establish a line of communication.”
“Well, you certainly got their attention,” Ross snapped, his gaze searing into her like molten lead. “That woman is dead because of you, and God knows what those spirits are planning to do next.”
“It’s not that simple, and you know it!” Zhara shot back, her eyes moistening. “I didn’t pull a trigger. I didn’t choose for her to die. The spirits—”
“The spirits are your domain,” Ross interrupted, his voice low and icy. “This mess is yours, whether you want to admit it or not.”
Zhara bit her lip, fighting back tears. “So what do you want to do, Ross? Take over? Banish them with a wave of your badge?”
Ross stared at her, his eyes softening ever so slightly, a concession that hurt more than any verbal lashing. “No. I want you to be better. For their sake, for our sake.”
“Better is not always up to me,” Zhara murmured, staring at the table laden with tools that suddenly seemed so meaningless. “You think I don’t want to save them? That woman’s face will haunt me for the rest of my life.”
Ross took a step closer, his voice tinged with a reluctant vulnerability. “Then let’s make sure no one else joins her. Fix this, Zhara. You’re the neghostiator; negotiate.”
With those words, Ross turned and walked away, leaving Zhara to grapple with the weight of her responsibility, the lives hanging in the balance, and the ghosts—both literal and metaphorical—that seemed to close in around her. The tension was palpable, the stakes raised to a fever pitch. Ross was right; she had to fix this. But as she looked back at the spirit box, now silent and inert, she wondered if some broken things could ever truly be mended.
Not. The. End.
MADD FICTIONAL 