“You’ve got to learn not to talk to clients that way,” scolded Scott as he slipped into the passenger seat of the 2003 Range Rover. The car—which Scott had affectionately taken to calling Clarence—was a British right-hand drive model. He’d bought the vehicle on a whim, and decided to take it for a spin. Across Europe.

Preston pushed through the fog on the windscreen, the sponge squeaking as it drew a path across the glass. “I told you they’d say it was witches.” The rain pelted the opposite side of the window, a constantly changing motif of streams and splashes. The relentless patter echoed through the car.

“He didn’t say it was witches,” corrected Scott, as he strapped the umbrella closed and dumped it behind his seat; droplets of rain flicked across the cream leather seats. “Not specifically, anyway.”

“Either way, he’s a fool.” Preston inspected his glasses, wiping them dry with a handkerchief. “Why can these people not just listen to us from the beginning? It would save us a lot of time.”

“It’s not our place to tell them otherwise. We do our jobs …” Scott lifted his eyebrows at Preston.

“And show them otherwise. Yes, I know.” Preston adjusted the rearview mirror, observing the dark street over the trailer tent. “It doesn’t make him any less of a fool, though.” He switched on the wipers. They swung back and forth across the windscreen, disrupting the swirling pattern as he jammed the Range Rover into gear. It had been a year now and despite doing most of the driving duties, shifting gear left-handed just wasn’t sinking in. Signalling to the empty street well in advance, he pulled Clarence away from the kerb. “It irritates me how naive people can be.”

“Well leave them to their naivety until we have the evidence to prove them wrong,” said Scott, watching the houses as they passed by. The block was built predominantly of large, white colonials; rows upon rows of shuttered windows peering back at him. The Sandford’s Gothic Revival home stuck out like a sore thumb. Perhaps a poorly disguised wolf amongst the sheep …

“Where are we going?” asked Preston, “There was a motel not far from—”

“Do you think we’re towing a trailer tent for the ‘street cred’?” said Scott, pulling himself away from the passenger-side window.

“Well it’s raining, I thought you might prefer to—”

Scott pointed through the windscreen: “There should be a clearing not too much further up here.”

Preston cautiously peeled his eyes from the road, deeming a quizzical glance at Scott worth the risk. “Seriously? In this weather?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Preston gripped the wheel tightly, the cream-leather-wrapped plastic creaking as his hands twisted. “When I agreed to come on the road with you, living in a tent wasn’t part of the arrangement.”

Scott folded his arms. He relaxed into the headrest, closing his eyes. “Well, you’re welcome to go back to Indiana and your crummy little desk job.”

With Preston at the wheel, Clarence ploughed through the downpour; the headlights cutting a path through the darkness. The quiet road was lined on both sides by large eastern white pines, their blue-green colouring bleached out by the night.

After a few minutes, Scott silently pointed out a clearing ahead of them. Preston signalled, the blinking orange lighting up the line of pines rhythmically. Clarence slowed, veering off the blacktop onto the grass, the trailer tent bouncing joyfully along behind. Preston guided the Range Rover part way into the clearing, pointing the headlights towards the mass of eastern whites as they withdrew from the highway, revealing a stretch of flat ground forty feet deep.

Preston squinted out of the side window. “This clearing?”

“Yeah, it looks clear enough.” Scott watched the beams from the headlights as they lit the open grass between them and the tree line. The pines stood in the glow, ominously still. The flow of raindrops had begun to slow, and instead of pounding the ground, the vehicle and everything in between, they almost floated, catching in the headlights like a heavy mist. “Oh look …” he said as he glanced out of his side window, peering up into the night sky, “It’s stopped raining.”

“Debatable,” returned Preston, wearily. As much as he tried, he wasn’t getting out of this.

“Let’s jump to it.” Scott popped the door and pushed himself out, pulling the zip on his windbreaker all the way to the top. Defeated, Preston pushed the driver’s seat back as far as it would go and reached behind it, pulling out his emergency rain boots. He traded them for his Walmart dress shoes and reluctantly hopped down from the Range Rover, mud squelching underfoot.

“I keep telling you, you need to start dressing more appropriately,” said Scott, who was always ready for any condition or situation; his rugged walking boots and heavy duty cargo trousers were a staple of his day-to-day attire. His pockets were loaded with both useful and obscure gadgets because, well, you never know. He scolded Preston regularly for sticking to his white-collar roots. Cut the cord, Scott had said. But Preston didn’t seem willing to fully let go of the life he chose to leave behind, no matter how awkward it made things on the road.

Scott had already unhooked the trailer tent from the tow-bar and with Preston’s assistance, wheeled it ahead of the parked Range Rover into the high beams. With the trailer positioned, Scott set about lowering feet from the corners to stabilise it. Preston slapped his hands together, shaking them free of rain water. “The day I start dressing like you is the day the Sandford’s ghost shows its face and waves hello.”

Scott struggled with the final foot, working the latch loose. “Nice to see you’re as optimistic as ever.”

“They know exactly what’s going on in that house. We should have just left when we had the chance.” Preston stood back, inspecting his hands for dirt. He wiped them delicately with his handkerchief.

Scott rolled back the dark blue trailer cover, and squatted down to slide it onto his shoulder. “I’ve never been closer. We both know Mr Sandford’s attitude is only going to get in the way, and I’m not in the mood to be butting heads.” He carried the roll to the Range Rover and slung it onto the roof. “But Mrs Sandford’s reaction to us leaving …” His mind flashed back to the house. “She really had me convinced there for a second.”

“Don’t do that again,” said Preston. He stood by one end of the trailer as Scott made his way back towards him.

“What?” Scott lifted a hinged set of legs and locked them in place. The pair each took hold of the platform they were connected to and heaved it upwards.

“Where you start thinking it’s actually going to be genuine activity.” The legs pushed through the grass into the softened mud under the weight of the platform, which now sat flush with the top of the trailer.

“I don’t. I’ve been doing this too long, seen too many cases go the same way to think anything’s genuine anymore.” Scott unfolded the legs on the one remaining platform, and they began lifting it, straightening out the large hinges that attached it to the side of the trailer.

“That’s not what happened in—”

Scott dropped the platform. Preston jumped as it swung back down, musty air forced out from within the folds of the canvas beneath. “Don’t you dare bring up Albuquerque again.”

Preston pointed an accusatory finger at Scott over the trailer, his eyes widening: “I’m going to bring up Albuquerque. It was as plain as the plaid in your wardrobe that those kids were hoaxing us, but you ate it all up. Every word.”

Scott rubbed his forehead with frustration: round in circles with the non-believer again. He was struggling to come to terms with the idea of never finding any genuine evidence, but despite his growing scepticism he had somehow managed to remain open-minded. Preston had a complete lack of interest in entertaining even the remotest possibility of the paranormal. It didn’t half grate his tits. “That’s not how it went and you know it.”

“I beg to differ,” argued Preston.

Scott wasn’t in the mood. “You know what, Preston? I don’t care.” He hoisted the platform, pushing it upwards with enough force to unfold it, the legs forcing their way deep into the dirt. He stared at Preston, his jaw expanding as he gritted his teeth. “You are my employee. You do what I say.” He span towards the Range Rover.

“But—”

“Shut your mouth. Put the tent up.” Scott threw open the passenger side door and slid inside heavily. He yanked on the door handle, Clarence shuddering as it slammed shut, and as if the vibrations had travelled all the way to the heavens themselves, rain exploded from the sky.

It was twenty minutes before the rain stopped again. It took eighteen and a half of them for Preston to erect the tent whilst Scott watched from the Range Rover.

As he waited for his stubborn subordinate to finish—smiling at the sight of him being pummelled by the heavy downpour—he thought about the pictures; the damage to the house. He relived the exchange in the dining room, visualizing Mirah Sandford’s panic as he rose to leave. Kevin Sandford’s unwillingness to accept anything but his own conclusion stuck in his mind, too. He had a face that had screamed ‘and I’d have gotten away with it too …’

Preston put the final peg in the ground with a small rubber mallet, tapping it deep into the mud through a loop attached to the canvas entryway. He stood wearily, peering in the vicinity of the passenger side of the windscreen. He squinted through the blinding light of the high beams and the what now felt like lead pellets driving down on him, and sarcastically motioned towards the doorway of the tent.

The headlights shut off as Scott leaned over and grabbed the keys from the ignition. He hopped down into the rain and made a beeline for the tent. Preston unzipped the doorway, and Scott passed straight through into the surprisingly comfortable living area that extended out in front of the trailer itself. The trailer was now a bedroom of sorts, with the two platforms that folded out from either side of it covered in thin foam mattresses and sleeping materials. It was all concealed by a canvas wall with a zip entrance in the center.

Scott flicked on a windup lantern hooked onto a loop of string tied to the ceiling pole. It swayed back and forth, casting sinister moving shadows across the cream canvas walls as Scott settled into a folding camping chair beside an old plastic folding table. Preston stepped inside, grabbing a towel he’d set out for himself and started to dry himself off.

“Look, I’m not saying we’re dealing with anything paranormal. Those pictures were faked. Mrs Sandford hasn’t got a clue what’s going on and I don’t see Mr Sandford hoaxing his own wife, no matter how much I’m starting to think he could be involved. All I’m saying is they don’t appear to be in on it. You have to admit that much.”

Preston pulled the zip closed, the canvas doorway rolling back into place. He held the towel to his head, frantically rubbing his hair dry. The bobble popped, hitting the plastic ground sheet. “I don’t have to admit anything.” The sheet crinkled and crunched loudly as Preston wandered aimlessly around the space, shaking the wet chill from his legs.

“Jesus, Preston, it’s like talking to a wall. Except you can kick a wall.”

Preston lowered the towel, damp strands of his stringy black hair falling across his face. “Sorry to disappoint. But they’re lying to you. They faked the photographs themselves.”

Scott cocked his head. “Why?”

“Why does anyone do it? For the attention.”

“The Sandfords want the attention?” Scott’s eyebrows raised, entertained by Preston’s reasoning. The early stages of a grin started to form.

“How exciting could their lives possibly be? They’ve had a bunch of energy-sapping grandkids dumped on them, and they live in a dull-as-dishwater town; the only thing it has going for it is a series of depressing historical events.”

“And your point is?” Scott’s grin grew as Preston explained seriously.

“Their house being haunted could drum up some interest. Charge a dollar to stand on the front lawn, he could sell his homegrown vegetables.”

Scott threw a finger at Preston as he stood excitedly, his jaw dropping, his eyes almost popping out of his head. “Yeah I can see it now!” He drew the outline of a large rectangular sign with his index fingers and thumbs, his eyes gazing upward; glazing over as he visualized the image intensely: “They could stick up a giant sign that reads: ‘Youngstown Haunting: Complimentary mange tout with every family ticket.’ They’d make a killing!”

Preston looked at Scott blankly. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

Scott smiled at his partner. Sometimes he hated the guy’s guts. Really hated them. But sometimes—occasionally—he was alright for a laugh. He bent down and unzipped the back canvas dividing wall. “You crack me up, Preston, you really do.” He leaned against the trailer; removing his shoes, before grabbing the lantern from the hanging string. “I’m gonna hit the hay, it’ll be a long day tomorrow.”

“A long day of disappointment if you think we’ll find anything,” said Preston as he hoisted himself up onto one of the padded platforms. Scott slid onto the other.

“I still think someone else is involved, and tomorrow night …” He clicked off the lantern, plunging the tent into complete darkness. “Maybe we’ll find out who.”