Chapter 28: THE JOURNALIST
Sarah Chen's rental car pulled into the Warren driveway at precisely 9:00 AM.
I watched from the study window as she emerged—professional blazer, notebook already in hand, the posture of someone who'd come to do battle with words instead of weapons. Ed had warned me about her. Three previous investigators had tried to write exposés about the Warrens. Two had published hit pieces that damaged their reputation for months. The third had experienced something during his visit and never published anything at all.
"She's good," Ed had said over breakfast. "Sharp. Persistent. Works for Connecticut Magazine now, but she's got ambitions. A story about fraudulent ghost hunters could make her career."
"And if she writes something positive?"
"Then she's either been converted or bribed. Either way, her credibility suffers." Ed shrugged. "There's no winning with skeptics. We just have to survive them."
Lorraine had touched my hand across the table. "You'll be her minder. Keep her away from the artifact room, away from active cases, away from anything that could be misinterpreted or sensationalized."
"Why me?"
"Because you're young enough to seem relatable and experienced enough to handle difficult questions." A small smile. "And because I read her aura when she called. She's not malicious—just hungry. Hungry people can be redirected if you give them something better to chase."
Now, watching Sarah approach the front door, I tried to see what Lorraine had seen. Sharp features. Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail that said "professional" but hinted at something less controlled underneath. Eyes that scanned the property with the attention of someone cataloging evidence for a prosecution.
The doorbell rang.
"So you're the junior partner," Sarah said, shaking my hand with a grip that was deliberately firm. "Paul Franco. I looked you up. Interesting background."
"I'm sure the hospital records were fascinating reading."
A flicker of surprise—she hadn't expected me to know she'd researched that far. "Unexplained coma. Miraculous recovery. Then you show up working with the most famous paranormal investigators in New England." Her pen tapped against her notebook. "Some people might call that suspicious."
"Some people might call it a calling."
"Do you?"
"I call it Tuesday."
She laughed—genuine, surprised by her own reaction. "You're funnier than I expected. The Warrens' previous associates have been... earnest."
"Earnest doesn't survive in this work. You either develop a sense of humor or you develop a drinking problem."
"Which did you develop?"
"Both. But the humor's cheaper."
Ed appeared behind me, Lorraine at his side. The official welcome began—handshakes, pleasantries, the careful dance of people who knew they were being evaluated. Sarah was good at making it seem casual, but I caught the way her eyes tracked to the locked doors, the blessed objects on shelves, the photographs of cases that lined the hallway.
"I'd like to start with a tour," she said when the formalities were finished. "See where the magic happens. If you'll pardon the expression."
"Paul will show you around," Ed said. "Lorraine and I have some calls to make. You're in capable hands."
He left before Sarah could object. Smart man. Let the junior partner take the heat while the principals stayed above the fray.
"Shall we?" I gestured toward the living room. "I should warn you—the magic is mostly paperwork and long drives."
The tour took three hours.
I showed her the filing system—thousands of case reports organized by date, location, and entity type. I showed her the equipment room—cameras, recording devices, EMF detectors, and enough blessed objects to make a cathedral jealous. I showed her the lecture materials Ed used for his university talks, the correspondence with families who'd been helped, the thank-you cards that covered an entire wall.
Through it all, Sarah asked questions.
"How do you distinguish genuine hauntings from psychological issues?"
"We don't take cases without a psychological evaluation first. If someone needs a therapist, we refer them to a therapist."
"What about fraud? People faking hauntings for attention or insurance claims?"
"We've caught eleven fakers in the past two years. We reported them to the appropriate authorities."
"And the genuine cases? How do you know they're genuine?"
"Evidence. Documentation. Multiple witnesses. Phenomena that can't be explained by natural causes." I paused at a photograph—the Morrison house, before the basement incident that had nearly killed me. "And sometimes, you know because you see it yourself. Hear it. Feel it trying to kill you."
Sarah's pen stopped moving. "That sounds personal."
"Everything in this work is personal eventually."
She studied me with those sharp eyes. I could see the calculations happening—trying to figure out if I was a true believer or a skilled performer. The answer was neither and both, but I couldn't tell her that.
"You actually believe this is real," she said. Not a question.
"I believe because I've experienced it. The screaming children, the injuries, the families torn apart by things they can't understand." I met her gaze directly. "I believe because not believing would make me a liar."
"Or it would make you sane."
"Sanity is overrated."
She laughed again—that surprised, involuntary sound. "You know, I came here to write a hit piece. 'The Con Artists Who Profit from American Fear.' My editor loved the pitch."
"And now?"
"Now I'm not sure what I'm writing." She glanced around the study. "You're either the most elaborate fraud I've ever encountered or something is happening here that I don't understand."
"Why can't it be both?"
The incident happened during lunch.
We were in the kitchen—me making sandwiches, Sarah reviewing her notes, the afternoon sun streaming through windows that hadn't been properly cleaned in months. The Warrens were still on their calls. The house was quiet in the way old houses are quiet: creaking, settling, breathing.
The temperature dropped.
I felt it first—that familiar chill that had nothing to do with drafts or air conditioning. The hairs on my arms stood up. Sarah looked up from her notebook, frowning.
"Is there a—"
The book flew off the shelf.
Not fell. Flew. It launched itself across the room with enough force to crack the plaster where it hit the wall. Sarah jumped back, her chair clattering to the floor. The temperature continued dropping. Frost formed on the windows despite the June warmth outside.
And then—a child's laugh. High and thin, echoing from nowhere and everywhere.
[ENTITY DETECTED: RESIDUAL — TIER 1]
[SOURCE: ARTIFACT ROOM PROXIMITY]
I stepped between Sarah and the hallway that led to the artifact room. The door at the end was closed, locked, sealed with blessings that Ed reinforced weekly. But something inside was active. Something had noticed we were there.
"What—" Sarah's voice cracked. "What was that?"
"Residual energy." I kept my voice calm despite my racing heart. "Old houses absorb spiritual impressions. Sometimes they replay."
"Replay?" She was pale, trembling, pressed against the kitchen counter like she was trying to melt through it. "That book didn't replay. It attacked."
"It didn't attack. It demonstrated." I picked up the book—a Bible, ironically—and set it back on the shelf. "There are things in this house that we've collected over years of cases. Contained things. Sometimes they get restless."
"Contained things." Her laugh was high, brittle, edging toward hysteria. "You keep demons in your house?"
"Not demons. Not anymore. Mostly objects with attachments. Items that were used in rituals or possessions. Things that can't be destroyed but can't be left where they were found."
The temperature was normalizing. Whatever had stirred was settling back into dormancy. I relaxed slightly, though I kept myself between Sarah and the artifact room door.
"Still think we're frauds?"
She didn't answer. She didn't need to. The look on her face was belief being born—terror and wonder and the death of comfortable assumptions, all mixed together in an expression I'd seen dozens of times on families we'd helped.
I made her coffee afterward.
We sat at the kitchen table, the afternoon sun warming air that had been unnaturally cold minutes before. Sarah's hands shook around her cup. She'd spilled the first pour. I pretended not to notice.
"I was going to destroy your careers," she said finally. "I had quotes lined up from psychologists. Case studies of grief exploitation. Statistics about the harm done by paranormal beliefs."
"I know."
"Most people would be angry."
"Most people haven't seen what you just saw."
She looked at me—really looked, the journalist's assessment replaced by something more vulnerable. "How do you live with this? Knowing that... that things like that exist?"
"You learn. You adapt." I thought about my first night in this body, staring at a ghost who stared back. "You find people who understand. And you remember that for every horror, there's someone who needs help fighting it."
"That's why you do this? To help people?"
"It's one reason."
"What are the others?"
I considered the question. Thought about the system tracking my progress, the canonical events approaching, the demons who called me "the wrong one" and sent watchers to study me.
"I'm not sure I know yet," I said honestly. "But I'm working on finding out."
Sarah set down her coffee. Her hands had stopped shaking.
"Can I see the artifact room?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because what's in there is worse than a flying book. And because some things you can't unsee."
She accepted that. Smart woman. Maybe smarter than I'd given her credit for.
"I'm going to rewrite my story," she said. "I don't know what it'll say yet. But it won't be a hit piece."
"I appreciate that."
"Don't appreciate it yet. I'm still a journalist. I'm going to write the truth—whatever that turns out to be."
"That's all I can ask."
She gathered her things, prepared to leave. At the door, she paused.
"Paul."
"Yes?"
"In case you ever want to talk. About anything." She pressed a business card into my hand. "Journalism isn't the only thing I'm interested in."
Then she was gone, her rental car disappearing down the driveway. I stood in the doorway, card in hand, wondering what exactly had just happened.
The system notification appeared in my peripheral vision.
[NEW CONTACT: SARAH CHEN — JOURNALIST]
[RELATIONSHIP: CURIOUS (+25)]
Lorraine appeared beside me, watching the empty driveway.
"She'll be back," she said.
"How do you know?"
"Because she looked at you the same way I looked at Ed the first time he showed me something real." A small smile. "Just be careful, Paul. Journalists and ghost hunters rarely end well."
I kept the card anyway.
MORE POWER STONES And REVIEWS== MORE CHAPTERS
To supporting Me in Pateron .
with exclusive access to more chapters (based on tiers more chapters for each tiers) on my Patreon, you get more chapters if you ask for more (in few days), plus new fanfic every week! Your support starting at just $6/month helps me keep crafting the stories you love across epic universes like [ In The Witcher With Avatar Powers,In The Vikings With Deja Vu System,Stranger Things Demogorgon Tamer ...].
By joining, you're not just getting more chapters—you're helping me bring new worlds, twists, and adventures to life. Every pledge makes a huge difference!
👉 Join now at patreon.com/TheFinex5 and start reading today!