Done Waiting: Riley

The rain tapped against my apartment window like it had a personal grudge, steady and insistent, the kind of Seattle drizzle that never quite commits to pouring but never lets you forget it’s there. Six months in, and I still hadn’t figured out how to tune it out. Or maybe I didn’t want to. The sound kept things honest -- reminded me why I’d left the Midwest’s flat, thunderous drama for this gray, layered quiet. The glass was cool under my fingertips as I pressed a hand to it, condensation beading like tiny, chilled pearls that smeared when I pulled away, leaving my skin faintly damp and clammy.

If I’d known what the next hunt would unleash -- pleasure tangled with real fear -- I might’ve stayed home with my singing bowls. Or maybe not.

I stood in the middle of my one-bedroom in Capitol Hill, gear spread across the coffee table like a ritual. The wooden surface was scarred from years of use, nicks and grooves under my palms as I arranged everything just so. Digital recorder charged, its sleek metal casing smooth and cool to the touch, fresh SD card clicked in with a satisfying snap. EMF meter calibrated (baseline zero, always check twice), the buttons yielding softly under my thumb with a faint electronic beep. Tactical flashlight with the red filter, because white light kills your night vision faster than a bad decision -- its rubberized grip textured for hold, even when hands get slick with sweat or rain. Spare batteries in the little pouch I sewed into my jacket lining after that fiasco in Ohio where everything died mid-EVP; the fabric was rough canvas, threads pulling slightly where I’d stitched it too hastily. Old habits, tactile anchors in a world of intangibles.

But the gear wasn’t the only ritual here. My apartment was a nest of edges -- singing bowls on the windowsill, their cool bronze humming faintly when I brushed a finger over one, the metal vibrating against my skin like a low, resonant promise, waiting for a mallet strike to wake up the room with that deep, lingering tone that always settled my nerves. Tarot deck on the side table, edges worn soft from late-night pulls, the cards’ laminated surfaces slick and slightly sticky from handling, the Fool card peeking out because that’s how I left it last time: a reminder not to overthink the leap. Wind chimes dangling from the curtain rod, tinkling softly in the draft from the cracked window, their silver and crystal strands cool and fragile under my touch, catching the dim lamp light and sending prisms dancing across my knuckles. And the athame on the bookshelf, blade dull but purposeful, its handle wrapped in leather that’s gone buttery-smooth from years of grip, more for focusing intent than anything dramatic. Not props. Tools. Like the recorder. I picked up the athame briefly, feeling its balanced weight in my palm, the leather warming to my skin -- grounding, controlled.

Philosophy hadn’t changed much since I started chasing this stuff in college: ghosts aren’t the point. The point is the edge -- the adrenaline spike when the temperature drops ten degrees in three seconds, the hairs on your neck standing up before your brain catches up, the way the world narrows to just you and whatever’s breathing (or not) in the dark. “It’s addictive,” I muttered to myself, running a thumb over the EMF meter’s smooth plastic casing, feeling the faint ridges of the label sticker peeling at the edges. “Cleaner than most highs. No hangover unless you count the existential questions that creep in at 4 a.m. when you’re reviewing footage alone.”

I’m a believer with high standards -- skeptical as hell because the field’s full of crap. Fake orbs from dust, “spirits” that sound suspiciously like the neighbor’s TV, groups hyping every creak into a demon. But I’ve had the real ones. The undeniable. That abandoned asylum in Indiana where a voice on the EVP said my dead aunt’s name -- clear as day, no static, no prompting. Or the cold handprint on my back in that Kansas farmhouse, fading but real enough to leave red marks, the chill seeping through my shirt like icy fingers pressing insistently, marking me. “You don’t chase this if you haven’t felt it,” I said aloud, half to the chimes as they stirred, their delicate clinks brushing against my senses like a whisper. “The rest is just noise.” I control how open I let my perceptions get -- dialing them up for a hunt, tuning them down when the world’s too loud. It’s a muscle, honed from years of deciding when to lean into the feel of a place versus shutting it out.

I hadn’t expected extra electricity this time. Not the kind that had nothing to do with cold spots or faulty wiring.

Jax.

Leader of the group I’d stumbled into three months back. Level-headed, evidence-first guy who still listened when I talked about “feel” instead of dismissing it. Most leaders treat intuition like a party trick; he treated it like data he hadn’t quantified yet. Competent. Safe. The two words that had kept me showing up when every other crew I’d tried felt like amateur hour. I hadn’t planned on noticing how his shoulders filled out his field jacket, the fabric probably rough and weather-beaten under touch, or how he always handed me the recorder first, fingers brushing just long enough to register -- a fleeting warmth that lingered on my skin like static. Hadn’t planned on replaying those moments later, wondering if the static on the walkie-talkie was covering something else.

I zipped my bag, the nylon teeth grinding together with a raspy zip, checked my phone. Lexi was due in ten. She’d texted earlier:

Lexi: Ready for the lovers’ lane crawl? Gonna be juicy tonight. Old pull-off off 169, rumors of a ’79 disappearance. Perfect for some lingering energy. 🍆

My phone buzzed, vibrating against the table with a low hum that I felt in my fingertips as I picked it up.

Lexi: Babe. Crisis at work. Can’t make it. • BUT don’t hate me... Jax volunteered to swing by and grab you instead. He’s already on his way. 😏😏

Me: You absolute traitor. What the fuck Lexi

Lexi: You two need this. The tension is killing ME. • Go get your ghost (and maybe more). Call me tomorrow with details. Or don’t. 😉

I typed fuck off and hit send, then stared at the screen like it might retract the message. My stomach did a slow flip -- not fear, not exactly. Anticipation with teeth, sharp and insistent, like the edge of a cold spot creeping in.

Why him? Why now?

I hadn’t been touched -- really touched -- since before the move. Back in the Midwest, things had fizzled with that guy from the old team, the one who thought “paranormal” was code for “excuse to drink in creepy places.” After that, it was easier to keep moving, keep the gear between me and anyone else -- the cold metal of tools safer than warm skin. Seattle was supposed to be a reset: new city, new group, same chase. Not this slow-burn distraction named Jax, who looked at me like he was trying to read an EVP waveform I hadn’t explained yet, his gaze almost tangible, like a brush of air across my cheek.

I glanced down at what I was wearing: practical as always. Black cargo pants with reinforced knees for crawling through brush or kneeling on damp ground, moisture-wicking base layer under a dark green fleece, waterproof shell jacket zipped halfway. Boots laced tight, good grip for uneven trails. No frills, no “ghost hunter chic” -- no black leather corsets or dramatic eyeliner, just functional layers that kept me warm, dry, and mobile when the temperature dropped or the rain doubled down. I’d dressed for the hunt, not for... whatever this extra pulse was.

But the texts were still glowing on my screen. Jax. Already on his way.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I turned toward the bedroom. Stupid, I knew. Pointless. He wasn’t going to see anything under the layers anyway. But my intuition -- the same quiet muscle that told me when a cold spot was real versus just a draft -- nudged hard. Cute. Matching. Just in case.

I peeled off the plain black briefs and sports bra, swapped them for the set I’d shoved to the back of the drawer months ago: soft charcoal lace, simple but pretty, the kind that felt like a secret against my skin. The fabric was cool at first, then warmed quickly as I pulled them on, the lace edges brushing my hips and ribs with a faint, teasing friction. I caught my reflection in the bedroom mirror -- still the same practical outfit on the outside, but underneath, something softer, deliberate.

“Ridiculous,” I muttered, cheeks heating. “Like a matching set is going to make the difference between EVPs and... whatever.” But I didn’t change back. Intuition won this round. I could control how open I let my perceptions get; apparently I could also control how open I let my underwear be.

“Hide the witchy shit?” I whispered to myself, glancing at the athame, the bowls, the cards. The chimes answered with a soft ring, like laughter, their crystals cool and smooth as I reached up to still them with a finger. Part of me wondered if Jax would get it -- if seeing this side would spook him more than any shadow figure. But fuck it. I’m me. If he’s competent enough to run a group without turning it into a circus, he’s competent enough to glimpse the occult edges without freaking. Maybe it’d even spark something -- his evidence brain poking at my intuition tools, our hands brushing over a card or bowl. Comfortable thought. Dangerous one.

I paced to the window, the hardwood floor creaking faintly under my boots, cool and uneven from the old building’s settle. Watched headlights cut through the rain on the street below, water sluicing down the glass in rivulets that distorted the view. A black SUV pulled up -- his. Engine idling, a low rumble I could almost feel through the floor. No honk. Patient.

Shit.

I grabbed my bag, slung it over my shoulder -- the strap digging into my collarbone with familiar pressure -- paused at the mirror. Hair damp from the humidity, curling at the ends where it brushed my neck, cheeks already flushed with warmth that spread like a slow burn. I looked like someone about to chase ghosts. Or something scarier.

The extra electricity wasn’t unnamed anymore. It had a pulse, a direction, and it was waiting downstairs in the rain, ready to test how open I’d let my perceptions get.

I exhaled, long and slow, feeling the air leave my lungs in a cool rush.

Done waiting, maybe.

I locked the door behind me and headed down, the stairwell’s metal railing cold and slick under my palm, each step echoing with a faint, resonant thud.