(POV Shift: First Person)
The morning sun was a lie. Its warmth didn't penetrate the cold that had settled in my bones, a cold that had nothing to do with the temperature. I sat on the porch steps, the Zippo in one hand and the half-burned sage bundle in the other. Beside me, Ed Warren watched the sunrise with the gaze of a soldier after a long night in the trenches. His last sentence echoed in my head: "You are the only living, breathing evidence."
It wasn't a compliment. It was a sentence. I was the black box of the plane that had already crashed. My camera-hand, my curse, was the only one that could record the truth without the entity veiling or corrupting it. The god who sent me here, in his infinite and cruel irony, had given me the key and the lock to my own cage.
I looked at my stream's interface. The chat was chaos. People debated, theorized, panicked. The viewer count had stabilized at a number that would have made me a millionaire in my previous life. Now, it just meant I had more fuel for the monster upstairs. Unless...
An idea, born from hundreds of hours of digital horror and sleepless nights, began to form in my mind. It was a stupid, desperate, and probably suicidal idea. It was perfect.
I leaped to my feet, a new energy coursing through me. I cleared my throat and, for the first time since I arrived, spoke directly to my audience, not as Alex, the terrified kid, but as ZeroCool_x, the streamer.
"Alright, folks, listen up," I said, my voice projecting with a confidence I didn't feel. I pointed the camera at my own face. "Last night we almost got killed. This... thing, Bathsheba, she's strong. And yeah, it looks like my presence, your presence, is fueling her. I'm her personal Red Bull. And that sucks."
I paused, letting my words sink in. The chat filled with sad emoticons and supportive messages.
"But Ed's right. I'm the only evidence. This camera can't be blocked. So we're going to change the rules of the game. We're not going to wait for her to attack anymore. We're going to hunt her." The chat exploded.
xX_GamerGod_Xx: YEEESSS!!! HUNTING MODE!!! TacoDestroyer: CHARGE, ZERO!!! LaChicaGamer92: Oh God, he's going to get himself killed! Don't do it!
"I know what some of you are thinking," I continued, anticipating them. "It's insane. And it is. But sitting here waiting is worse insanity. So we'll do this the way we know. We'll initiate protocol... Phasmophobia."
A murmur of recognition swept through the chat. Hundreds of users typed the game's name.
"That's right. We're going to treat this witch like a pro-level ghost. We need to identify her, gather evidence, and find her weaknesses so the Warrens can do their job. But for that, I need gear. Ed's gear is good for its time, but I have access to something better. I have the Shop. And the Shop, my friends, runs on donations."
I started walking around the porch, like a presenter on a stage. "I need objectives, I need evidence. So here's what we'll do. First objective: get a clear photograph of the entity. For that, I need a photo camera. Second: find its preferred location and contain it. I need salt. Lots of consecrated salt. Third: we need to communicate, ask the right questions. I need something that works like a Spirit Box. And fourth..." I swallowed, "...I need a way to maintain sanity. My sanity. If I'm the battery, I need to keep the charge low. I need medication."
I stopped and looked directly into the lens. "Every donation buys us a tool. Every tool brings us closer to the evidence we need for the Church to authorize the exorcism. You won't just be spectators. You'll be the support team. You'll be my only chance. So, what do you say? Do you want to see a real ghost hunt?"
(POV Shift: Third Person)
Ed and Lorraine had watched the entire strange rant from the doorway. Ed didn't understand half the references, but he perfectly grasped the transaction taking place. The young man was funding his own survival through the thousands of invisible eyes Lorraine could sense.
Alex turned to them, his face flushed with excitement and fear. "I've got a plan," he said simply.
An hour later, they were all gathered in the living room. The Perron family, who had overheard the proposal, looked at Alex with a desperation that overcame their distrust. Alex explained his strategy to them, stripped of video game jargon.
"We need to provoke her in a controlled way," Alex explained. "We need to make her manifest so we can photograph her. The salt will create barriers, safe zones where she can't enter. And this 'Spirit Box'," he said, thinking of the radio he planned to buy, "might allow us to ask her direct questions."
"Phasmo-what?" Ed asked, frowning. "Son, this isn't a game. It's a human soul corrupted by evil. Provoking her is like pouring gasoline on a fire."
"But sitting around waiting is like letting the house burn to the ground!" Alex retorted. "Your method didn't work. Your cameras came out veiled. Mine won't! Let me try! What do we have to lose?"
"Our lives!" Roger Perron interjected, his voice filled with anguish. "My daughters' lives!"
It was Lorraine who tipped the scales. She had been silent, eyes closed, but now she opened them. Her gaze was clear and filled with a terrifying gravity. "The boy is right, Ed," she said softly. "Not in method, perhaps, but in intent. Passivity will kill us. This entity, Bathsheba, feeds on the routine of fear. Breaking that routine, challenging her... it's risky, but it's our only option. She won't expect it. Consider his plan, not as a game, but as active research. A calculated provocation."
Ed looked at his wife, then at Roger's desperate face, and finally at the determined young man staring back at him. He saw the cold logic behind the strange terminology. Containment points, evidence gathering, vulnerability identification. It was a battle plan.
"Alright," Ed conceded with a deep sigh. "We'll do it your way. But I'm in charge. I decide where and when. And at the first sign that we're losing control, we abort the mission. Understood?"
"Understood, Captain," Alex replied with a small smile. The alliance, strange as it was, had been forged.
(POV Shift: First Person)
The chat's response was immediate and overwhelming. Donation notifications began raining on my HUD, each with a message of encouragement or gaming advice. It was surreal. I was funding a real-life ghost hunt through microtransactions.
GhostHunter_PRO: For the camera! Remember ghost photos are worth more points! Don't forget the bones! CircleOfSalt_Fan: SALT! Make a circle like in Supernatural and don't let anything in! Richie_Rich: Kid, you're crazy, but you've got me hooked. Here's for the radio and the pills. Don't die, okay?
I opened the shop, my heart pounding. My balance was over eighty dollars. New items were available, as if my plan had unlocked them.
[HUNTING SHOP]
Instant Camera (Polaroid style, 10 photos) - $15.00
Consecrated Rock Salt (Large jar) - $10.00
Modified Transistor Radio (Spirit Box) - $25.00
Sanity Pills (Vial with 5 doses) - $30.00
Blessed Silver Crucifix (Focused deterrence) - $50.00
Fast-Reading Digital Thermometer - $10.00
I bought the camera, the salt, the radio, and the pills. I felt the items materialize in my hoodie pockets, which now weighed like a soldier's vest. The crucifix was too expensive for now, but I put it on my mental wishlist.
I showed the gear to Ed. He took the Polaroid camera with an almost childlike curiosity. "Instant photography? Fascinating." He examined the salt jar. "Consecrated, you say. That's good. Salt is a biblical purifier. It creates a barrier the impure cannot cross." His initial skepticism was being replaced by a pragmatic fascination.
The transistor radio intrigued him most. It was a 70s model, but with some strange modifications: a dial that swept frequencies at a dizzying speed and a small speaker emitting a constant, hissing static.
"It's supposed to sweep radio frequencies, creating white noise that spirits can use to form words," I explained.
"An electronic ouija board," Lorraine murmured apprehensively. "Be very careful what you ask, Alex. And be ready for the answers."
(POV Shift: Second Person)
The afternoon wears on. The golden light turns to bloody orange. The house seems to hold its breath, awaiting night. You've decided to start where the terror was strongest: the girls' room. The Perron family has locked themselves downstairs, under Ed's strict order not to move for anything. It's just the three of you: Ed's faith, Lorraine's perception, and your impossible technology.
You reach the bedroom door. You feel the cold before you enter. It's like stepping into a freezer. You pull out the salt jar. With a trembling hand, you pour a thick, white line across the threshold. It's your lifeline, your line in the sand. Ed nods, approving the measure.
You enter. The room is silent. Ed turns on his EMF meter, which remains silent. Lorraine stands still in the center, eyes closed, trying to read the invisible currents of the place. You are the one who acts.
You pull out the Polaroid camera. It feels heavy and strange in your hand. You aim at the corner where Nancy saw the figure. CLICK-WHIRRRR. The camera ejects a blank photograph. You lay it on the dresser to develop, your heart pounding.
Then, you point towards the infamous wardrobe. CLICK-WHIRRRR. Another photo.
Nothing happens. The silence is almost a mockery.
"She doesn't want to play," you whisper.
"She's watching," Lorraine replies, without opening her eyes. "She feels what you're trying to do. She's confused by you."
This is the moment. You pull out the transistor radio. The hiss of white noise fills the room, an irritating, monotonous sound. You feel the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. You hold the device with a trembling hand.
"Is anyone here?" you ask, your voice sounding weak and foolish in the freezing room.
Only static.
"Can you give us a sign?"
More static. Ed looks at you with a raised eyebrow, about to say this isn't working. But Lorraine raises a hand, signaling for silence.
You try one last time, your voice a little louder. "What is your name?"
And through the hiss, a word forms. It's a voice that isn't a voice, a whisper formed by fragments of hundreds of radio stations, but it's unmistakably clear.
...A...lex...
Your name. Spoken by the air. A violent shiver shakes you to your soul. She knows who you are. She knows you. You look at Ed and Lorraine, and you see your own terror reflected in their faces.
Before anyone can react, a new sound breaks the silence. It doesn't come from the radio. It doesn't come from the room. It comes from below, faint but clear, rising from the floor of the house.
It's the soft, tinkling melody of a child's music box. And it comes, unmistakably, from the basement.
She has answered you. And now, she is inviting you to her lair. The hunt has truly begun.