Free Ghost Guard by J. Joseph Wright

what’s all this talk about disruptions in the spirit world and mysterious supernatural entities? You’re giving me the heebie-jeebies.”
    “Yeah, Morris,” for once, Abby had to agree with Rev. “What do you know about this mission you’re not telling us?”
    “Nothing,” he raised his palm. “I swear. I just thought with all those spiritualists and psychics and other people on the fringes of the supernatural, there’s no telling what we might encounter. Better safe than sorry. At any rate, it shouldn’t come down to that. Hopefully Abby will be able to use her powers of persuasion and we won’t have to resort to anything drastic.”
    “Oh come on, Morris,” Rev snickered. “This is just a routine job. Small potatoes. So small it’s not even worth our time.”
    “Be that as it may,” he said. “We still have a job to do. It was handed down from on high, if you know what I mean.”
    “You don’t mean—” Abby looked up.
    “Yes,” Morris nodded. “Mahoney,” and with the press of a button, a balding, obese man’s head and shoulders appeared on the screen. Mahoney, their handler at Para-Intelligence, had a message.
    “Hello, guys. Just a quick word before your next assignment. This one’s a little unusual, I know. But I’m sure you guys can handle it. I wouldn’t let you try if I wasn’t sure. Anyway, I don’t have to remind you that the spirit realm depends on you. There’s a war out there. A war against spirits. And you’re on the front line, risking your own safety for the safety of all the immaterial beings that need protection. I know you’re anxious to get busy, so I’ll end this by saying, good luck, Ghost Guard.”

FIVE
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    IN HIS ENTIRE AFTERLIFE , Rev had never witnessed such a diverse juxtaposition of breathers, living or dead. Scores of messy-haired twenty-somethings wearing vintage concert T-shirts and beat-up Converse All-Stars next to clergymen and grandmothers with canes. Rastafarian drummers and musicians. Street performers and magicians. Tattered thrift store clothes alongside suits and ties. All kinds of homemade signs saying things like, ‘Tolerance Does Not End at Death,’ and ‘Cyclists against Prejudiced Spirits.’ And, of course, there were the night vision cameras and digital sound recorders and electro-magnetic field detectors.
    “I still don’t understand why we have to be here,” Morris and Abby heard him over the radio as a crackling electronic voice phenomenon, or EVP. Rev heard them fine with no electronic assistance at all.
    “It’s our job,” Abby said.
    “Yeah, but there are a whole lot of people here tonight. If we wanted to be low profile, I think we missed the mark.”
    “I told you there’d be a lot of people,” Morris answered. “That’s why we’re here.”
    Rev had a bad feeling about this group. Hundreds of breathers, packing the downtown park. Too many angry thoughts. Too much negative energy.
    He spotted Abby. She had on one of her favorite disguises—a hipster girl with a vintage men’s flannel shirt, an organic straw fedora, thick horn-rimmed spectacles, big black 80s Doc Martins, and tight, shredded jeans that showed some skin. The whole ensemble made Rev’s nonexistent stomach turn, yet somehow Abby pulled it off.
    “Morris, are you absolutely sure about this?” Rev couldn’t shake that feeling. “I mean, we’re exposing Abby to a lot more than I feel comfortable with.”
    “You don’t trust me?” Brutus had to take offense. His scratchy, smoldering growl pounded through Rev’s consciousness.
    “Of course I trust you, Brutus. That’s not it. This whole thing just has a weird feel.”
    With a series of clicks and squeaks, Ruby agreed. She felt something had been wrong from the moment they’d arrived, and it had nothing to do with the number of people. It was something else, something she couldn’t put a finger on.
    “Guys, guys,” Morris tried to lend some assurance.