GHOST COLLEGE
The Ghost Files #1
by
Scott Nicholson
and
J.R. Rain
Acclaim for J.R. Rain and Scott Nicholson:
“Be prepared to lose sleep!”
—James Rollins, international bestselling author of The Doomsday Key on J.R. Rain’s The Lost Ark
“Like Stephen King, Scott Nicholson knows how to summon serious scares.”
—Bentley Little, bestselling author of His Father’s Son
“I love this!”
—Piers Anthony, bestselling author of Xanth on J.R. Rain’s Moon Dance
“Scott Nicholson is a writer who always surprises and always entertains.”
—Jonathan Maberry, bestselling author of Patient Zero
“Dark Horse is the best book I’ve read in a long time!”
—Gemma Halliday, award-winning author of Spying in High Heels
“Scott Nicholson is a wonderful storyteller.”
—Sharyn McCrumb, bestselling author of The Ballad novels
Other Books by J.R. Rain
STANDALONE NOVELS
The Lost Ark
Elvis Has Not Left the Building
The Body Departed
Silent Echo
Winter Wind
SHORT STORY SINGLES
The Bleeder
VAMPIRE FOR HIRE
Moon Dance
Vampire Moon
American Vampire
Moon Child
Christmas Moon
Vampire Dawn
Vampire Games
Moon Island
Moon River
Vampire Sun
Moon Dragon
SAMANTHA MOON
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
Teeth and Other Stories
Vampire Nights and Other Stories
Vampires Blues and Other Stories
Vampire Dreams and Other Stories
Halloween Moon and Other Stories
Vampire Gold and Other Stories
Blue Moon and Other Stories
Dark Side of the Moon and Other Stories
JIM KNIGHTHORSE SERIES
Dark Horse
The Mummy Case
Hail Mary
Clean Slate
Night Run
JIM KNIGHTHORSE
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
Easy Rider and Other Stories
THE WITCHES TRILOGY
The Witch and the Gentleman
The Witch and the Englishman
The Witch and the Huntsman
THE SPINOZA TRILOGY
The Vampire With the Dragon Tattoo
The Vampire Who Played Dead
The Vampire in the Iron Mask
THE AVALON DUOLOGY
The Grail Quest
The Grail Knight
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
The Bleeder and Other Stories
The Santa Call and Other Stories
Vampire Rain and Other Stories
THE VAMPIRE DIARIES
Bound By Blood
SCREENPLAYS
Dark Quests
Co-Authored Books
COLLABORATIONS
Cursed! (with Scott Nicholson)
Ghost College (with Scott Nicholson)
The Vampire Club (with Scott Nicholson)
Dragon Assassin (with Piers Anthony)
Dolfin Tayle (with Piers Anthony)
Jack and the Giants (with Piers Anthony)
Judas Silver (with Elizabeth Basque)
Lost Eden (with Elizabeth Basque)
Deal With the Devil (with Elizabeth Basque)
NICK CAINE ADVENTURES
with Aiden James
Temple of the Jaguar
Treasure of the Deep
Pyramid of the Gods
THE ALADDIN TRILOGY
with Piers Anthony
Aladdin Relighted
Aladdin Sins Bad
Aladdin and the Flying Dutchman
THE WALKING PLAGUE TRILOGY
with Elizabeth Basque
Zombie Patrol
Zombie Rage
Zombie Mountain
THE SPIDER TRILOGY
with Scott Nicholson and H.T. Night
Bad Blood
Spider Web
Spider Bite
THE PSI TRILOGY
with A.K. Alexander
Hear No Evil
See No Evil
Speak No Evil
THE ABNORM CHRONICLES
with Eve Paludan
Glimmer
Other Books by Scott Nicholson
Disintegration
The Home
The Skull Ring
The Harvest
Kiss Me or Die
Burial to Follow
The Dead Love Longer
October Girls
Creative Spirit
Speed Dating with the Dead
Crime Beat
The Red Church
Drummer Boy
Solom
The Gorge
Fangs In Vain
Ghost College (with J.R. Rain)
The Vampire Club (with J.R. Rain)
Bad Blood (with J.R. Rain and H.T. Night)
Spider Web (with J.R. Rain)
Cursed (with J.R. Rain)
Meat Camp (with J.T. Warren)
After: First Light
After: The Shock
After: The Echo
Collections
Curtains
Flowers
Ashes
The First
Gateway Drug
Head Cases
These Things Happened
Zombie Bits
American Horror
Missing Pieces
Children’s Books
If I Were Your Monster
Too Many Witches
Duncan the Punkin
Ida Claire
Screenplays
The Skull Ring: The Screenplay
Creative Spirit: The Screenplay
The Gorge: The Screenplay
Boxed Sets
Mystery Dance
Ethereal Messenger
Ghost Dance: Three Novels
Bad Stacks: Three Story Collections
Odd Stacks: Three Story Collections
Mad Stacks: Three Story Collections
The Indie Journey
Ghost College
Copyright © 2011 J.R. Rain and Scott Nicholson
Published by J.R. Rain and Scott Nicholson
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved by the authors. Thank you for reading us.
Ghost College
Chapter One
The place didn’t look haunted; then again, they never do.
We were standing in the polished entrance hall to a small Christian college called Faith University. It was after hours, and so the building was mostly empty. To either side stretched dimly lit hallways. Further down, wedges of light poured from a couple of night classes and faint sounds of an instructor’s lecture spilled from one, the word “Leviticus” jumping out of the drone.
The hallway stretched to our left, devoid of human traffic, but it wasn’t humans we were looking for. At least, not living ones.
I adjusted the sack of gear dangling from my shoulder and surveyed the atmosphere. The place did look sort of gloomy and forlorn, which was surprising considering it was a faith-based institution of relatively new construction.
You would have expected some sort of shimmering glow about the place, like th
e halo of a saint, or some clouds spilling down from a set of golden stairs. It wasn’t much of a university, really. It felt more like an extension of Cal State Fullerton, which was located across the street.
“What do you think?” I asked, keeping my voice low and reverent, like you would in church even if no one was there.
Ellen had taken a step or two in front of me and was currently peering off down a darkened side hall. “Oh, it’s haunted, alright.”
She turned to me and flashed me her brilliant smile, the sort that always gave me a fluttering out-of-body experience. Love. Talk about your supernatural powers.
“What can I say?” She reached over and slapped me lightly on the cheek. “It’s a gift. You know that. We’ve been through this a hundred times before.”
“And all one hundred times, I have yet to see a ghost.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
“Right. They’re invisible. Why can’t I see that?”
To be honest, I didn’t know what the hell I had felt, seen, or imagined in the past. A cold breeze at the back of my neck. A suspicious moan or two that could have just as easily been the wind. Flitting images that were probably distant headlights sweeping across a window. The mysterious creaking of floorboards, of faint touches on necks and shoulders and forearms, inexplicable goose bumps and soft whispers in my ears.
All of these occurrences, or non-events, could be summed up easily enough: too many long hours working into the middle of the night, hoping for real evidence in a field where everything was built on faith.
Seemed like the ghost-hunting business was a lot like the religion business, so maybe we were in the right place after all.
“They weren’t figments of your imagination,” Ellen said.
“I have strict control over my imagination. In other words, nothing goes on in there that I don’t want to go on. For instance, I am now imagining you fully naked and my EMF meter is going berserk.”
“Put that twitching needle back in your pants,” she said. “There’s someone coming.”
“Now turn around,” I said.
“What?”
“I’m talking to the imagination. Ah, very good. Okay, you may get dressed now.”
“You are too much, Monty.”
I heard the footsteps now. Someone was hurrying down the tiled hallway, materializing before us from the darkness. Now, if this was a ghost, then we were in business. This I could see and hear. And smell. The aroma of whiskey and cigarettes came before him like a bar-stool hurricane.
The figure turned out to be a short man with a surprisingly large waist. “Surprisingly” because he was moving so quickly, as the added girth apparently gave him no trouble at all, a man grown comfortable in his own elastic skin. He was wearing a short suit with a red-and-white striped tie that hung below his zipper. His sweating face was a beacon in the darkness. I checked my watch. Dr. Stevens was right on time.
The professor approached my wife first, as most men do, instantly attracted to her disarming smile and lithe figure. Or perhaps attracted to that thing that had pulled me in, the X Factor.
That unknown something she possessed. That special energy she radiated whether she knew it or not. The look in her eyes that promised all men amusement and good times, even if she never intended to deliver.
And with me, luckily, she delivered.
Sometimes twice a night, and occasionally three, if we were sleeping in the next morning.
“Hi,” said the little man, his voice booming along the hallways. If there were any ghosts, they would have scattered like frightened fish, assuming they could hear or respond to air vibrations. He reached out a very large hand, which was disproportionate to his body. In the world of Tolkien, he would have wielded a battle axe and sported very hairy toes. “Ellen and Monty?”
“That’s us,” I said. “She’s Ellen.”
He grinned. “That was my next question.”
He wiped some sweat away with the back of his hand. The night was cool enough that Ellen was wearing a sweater. Then again, she often wore sweaters even on warm summer evenings. This was not a warm summer evening. This was early February. But this was also Southern California, where there were only two seasons: Oscar season and everything else. “Perhaps we should talk in my office,” he said.
After we had followed him through a series of twists and turns and into a large office, making small talk about the state budget cuts that had curtailed higher education, he closed the door behind us after giving the hallway a quick check. Ellen and I sat before him at his spacious desk.
He sat back and looked at us. “We have a problem,” he said simply. “And we need some help.”
Chapter Two
He lowered his voice an octave, as if afraid a student might overhear. “And you are the ghost hunters?”
“We prefer to call ourselves paranormal investigators, Dr. Stevens,” I said.
“Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to offend.” He paused and took us both in, the hint of a smile still stamped on his jovial face. “I’ve never met ghost hunters before.”
I was about to object to the reference again when my wife leaned forward and placed a digital audio recorder on his desk. She clicked it on and a red dot of light appeared. “9:17 p.m., February 11, Dr. Stevens’ office,” she said, projecting for the benefit of the recording. She nodded at the professor and returned to a conversational tone. “You mentioned hearing some strange noises, Dr. Stevens?”
The joviality left his face, replaced with something closer to exhaustion. “Either way, right?” he laughed, his voice booming. He looked nervously at the recorder.
“Actually, we investigate strange occurrences and attempt to identify the sources,” I said. “Much of our work is in eliminating all rational physical explanations, and only then do we consider the possibility of something more. But so far there’s never been something more.”
“Tell us about the ghost,” my wife said, cutting off my serious scientific explanation of our task.
“I never said we had a ghost,” said the little man, looking up startled. “We just have had some strange, you know, occurrences.”
“Of course,” she said. “I didn’t mean to unnerve you.”
But my wife never said “ghost” unless she was sure there was a ghost. She’d always had more faith than me, but I also trusted that she had a more refined sense of the sublime. Myself, I tried to give the moment some academic distance before I got all caught up in hysteria.
We were sitting in the president’s office. There were some fairly impressive plaques and degrees placed precisely on the wall behind his desk, and some other certificates with ornate writing scattered around the room. I noticed that one of his plaques was askew. Just one. The others were in perfect uniform precision.
It didn’t fit the world of Dr. Stevens. I have often come across many things that didn’t make sense. For my wife, however, it all made perfect sense. Sometimes I wished I had her outlook. Sometimes. And sometimes her outlook scared the hell out of me.
His office was in a corner of the building. The blinds were shut, but had they been open he would have had a great view of Cal State Fullerton across the street. With practice, he probably would have been able to shoot rubber bands at that larger, better-funded campus.
His chair was studded leather. His desk was large enough to play ping pong on. Aside from our recorder, his desk was empty, save for a picture of a pretty but severe woman and a cute little girl. The picture was angled so that he could see it from his desk. I had to lean forward to see it.
“There have been noises,” he said, reluctantly. He had clasped his hands together. His thumbs twiddled briefly, and then stopped, then started again.
“What type of noises?” I asked. People tended to overdramatize such situations, but I could sympathize a little. Once upon a time, I had been a cold creature of logic, and th
en Ellen happened.
Stevens shifted, his leather seat emitting a slight farting squeak that we all ignored. I wondered if that was the mysterious noise of which he spoke.
He adjusted the picture of his family on his desk, and then wiped at imaginary dust on the mirror-like maple desktop. Too bad we weren’t getting paid by the hour. He shrugged, his face reddening a little with embarrassment or stress. “Screams. Wailing. Footsteps. Sobbing.”
I turned to my wife. “Sounds like our first date.”
Talk about a severe look. My wife said nothing—she didn’t have to, the look said plenty—and turned to Dr. Stevens. “Have you heard these noises yourself?”
“No. Well, not at first.”
We waited. The recorder was a two-gig Sony model, so we had all night. And most of the week.
“I have been hearing reports from others, mostly from the janitorial staff. They told me about some of the sounds, except they didn’t really hear them as words.”
“So you ignored them,” said Ellen.
“Yes. At first.” He spoke with a little of the pomposity earned by all those degrees. “Janitors are generally uneducated.”
“And that means they’re superstitious?” I said, a little annoyed. Elitism never sat well with me. “Like they dance around the mop bucket mumbling voodoo spells when you’re not looking?”
“Not at all,” he said. “In fact, it’s because they are uneducated that I came to believe them. Because they repeated the sounds they’d been hearing, and I recognized it was Latin.”
“Great Caesar’s ghost,” I said.
My wife jumped in before my sarcasm got rolling. “How long had the janitorial staff been reporting these strange voices?”
He shrugged. “A while. Ever since I’ve been here, really. I chalked it off to legend. Faith University started as a bible seminary during the Depression, and stories tend to pile up over the years, especially at an institution that encourages a belief in miracles.”