Ghost in the (Washing) Machine [pt.2]

Ghost in the (Washing) Machine [pt.2]

​​All thirteen of them show up to our apartment, early, and begin investigating like it's a crime scene, looking very professional in matching vests with W.I.S.P.R stenciled across the back. A woman with long, wavy auburn hair who's head nearly brushes the ceiling fan stands in the middle of our living room/dining room/ceramics studio with her eyes closed and a hand held in the air, while a middle-aged guy that looks like he could bench press her zips around with some sort of antennaed instrument, hand to his head-phoned ear, brows indicating deep concentration.

The skeptic. I recognize him from the website.

The tall woman, I remember, claims she has spoken to the dead since she was a child.

A young man in a crisp shirt and tie, shorter than me, his vest a little big across the shoulders, smiles brightly and reaches out to shake my hand.

"Please bear with us! Setting up wont take long at all, not long at all." He says with a reassuring widening of his smile.

"Don't you want to hear about—"

"Ah ah ah!" He holds up a scolding finger, "No no, its best for us to get readings before hearing about your experience. We'll obtain a list of your symptoms after the initial sweep and then—"

"Symptoms?"

He hugs his clipboard in a scandalized way, "Yes—you received our correspondence, did you not?"

"Your email? Um… it was a little… long—"

He sighs through his nose and pulls a paper packet from somewhere and thrusts it at me.

"It's all in there."

I flip through a few pages, skimming for anything suspicious.

"This is all… free, right?"

"Yes, of course, completely free!"

"Who pays for all of, um, you? And this stuff?" An older woman with fluffy blonde hair and the one kid that looks like a ghost hunter wheel in a cart laden with futuristic stereo equipment, and the woman starts untangling wires while the goth kid gets on his hands and knees to start unplugging our tv to free up more outlets.

"Oh, we have a few local donors—it's all in the packet!" He taps it with his finger and then turns to confer with the father-in-law duo that has been inspecting my walls.

I lean on the counter of our kitchen/home office and pretend to read through the dizzying amount of too-small text while observing the crew. A solid third of them are hovering around the sink, plugging in a coffee maker. They keep opening my fridge.

"Is the refrigerator haunted?" I ask jokingly.

"Do you have any non-dairy milk?" a permanently worried looking person with large glasses and thin shins asks me.

The cart of instruments comes to life with a loud whirring sound and some rhythmic beeping.

"What does that mean?" I call to the gothling, handing owl-eyes a carton of probably still good soymilk that my step-mother-in-law left here at vegan thanksgiving.

"Hm. Nothing yet. Just getting the room noise." He sounds like he's trying to talk without moving his mouth.

Everyone goes silent and he claps once, and when chatter resumes the young professional—I think he's the newest member of the group, if I remember correctly—circles back to me.

"You've finished reading the paperwork? Good. Now—"

"I've got something!" A young woman with an Australian accent shouts breathlessly from the corner, rustling behind a houseplant, and we all scurry over.

…

Thanks for reading,

HARTWELL