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what makes us so
different. It’s just the four of us; me, Caroline, Josh and Nugent
with our own hand-held video recorders and EVP equipment.”
    “EVP?”
    “Electromagnetic voice phenomena. It picks up
sounds that the human ear can’t hear.”
    “Sounds? Like what?” Warren glanced sideways
at Bruce Morrison, head of the park rangers, whom he’d called over
from a late meeting down the hall.
    “Dude, from the other side. You know,
dead people.”
    “Oh.”
    “So anyway, tonight we were just scouting the
area. The conditions were perfect, some moonlight, very little
wind. What we do that’s different from the other shows is we all go
out on our own and individually try to provoke the spirits into
responding to us. That’s why we’re the Gonzo Ghost Chasers ,”
he added sheepishly.
    “Uh-huh,” Warren replied with a grunt,
wondering whether this clown was actually serious about all this
nonsense. “Go on.”
    “Well, we decided to split up the
battlefield, and I got Devil’s Den. I figured I’d check out where
that famous photo of the dead Rebel sharpshooter was taken after
the battle. We had a local guy drop us off at our sites—”
    “Which is illegal after dark,” cut in
Morrison.
    Weinstein held up his hand in
acknowledgement. “I was there a little while, and it was really
quiet. All you could hear was that little creek nearby. So I turned
on my stuff and started recording, provoking the spirit of the dead
Confederate.”
    “By saying what?” asked Warren.
    “Dude, it’s all on the tape, but I said,
like, ‘Are you here? I’m talking to the dead soldier in the photo.
Are you aware you died for nothing? Are you ashamed you were
fighting for an unjust cause? The bondage of other human beings?’
Stuff like that.”
    “Oh, boy,” said Morrison, checking his
watch.
    “Yeah, you can say what you want, man,”
Michael Weinstein argued, “but then how do you explain that
guy showing up?”
    “What guy?” asked Warren and Morrison
simultaneously.
    “The Southern soldier, man! It’s like, all of
a sudden I caught a whiff of what smelled like, I don’t know,
something putrid.”
    “Did you smell horse?” cut in Warren.
    “Horse?”
“Yes, was there the smell of a horse?”
    Weinstein’s eyes widened as he recalled.
“Yes,” he said slowly, “there was a horsey smell in there
somewhere. Hey, how would you know that?”
    “Lucky guess,” said Warren. “Continue.”
    “Well, then the battery on my EVP recorder
died. Just died , man, even though I’d changed it that
afternoon. That’s what happens sometimes. Spirits drain batteries
in order to manifest themselves. It’s happened on other shows, but
not like this.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I looked up and he was there ,
man. Not some whitish orb floating around. Not some shadow figure
or mist. A real, honest-to-goodness ghost!”
    “Describe him, er, it,” said Warren, learning
forward in his chair.
    “Well, I was sitting against one of the
boulders, looking up at him, but the moon came out from behind some
clouds and it was like a spotlight hit him, so I got a good look.
We’re talking over six feet tall, with a beard and kinda curly long
hair, in a full Confederate uniform ! Boots with spurs, a big
old saber on his belt, gold braid all over the place, and to top it
off, a Western style hat with a big plume hanging off it.”
    “Was he armed? Besides the sword, I mean,”
said Warren.
    “Dude, this guy was packing the biggest
pistol I’ve ever seen! I mean, bigger than Clint Eastwood’s in the Dirty Harry movies!”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Of course I’m sure! It was an inch from my
face!” Weinstein shuddered at the still-fresh memory.
    Morrison crossed his arms over his chest and
casually leaned against the wall, his salt-and-pepper hair and
bifocals giving him the appearance of a quizzical college
professor. “What did he say, Mr. Weinstein? Be specific.”
    “Well, he asked me what unit I was with,
which at first