The Dead Speak Ill Of The Living (The Dead Speak Paranormal Mysteries Book 1) Read Online Free Page A

accept there have been a few interesting results, but they were
never reproducible outside of a lab, and for us that means they didn’t happen.
So, here’s what I propose. Before we celebrate, before we even tell anyone, we
have to test this system outside the lab. More ghosts, more data, more proof.”
He paused, looked at the box, and added “with all due respect Professor.”
      
“That’s fine,” came the voice, “as the first my place in history is secure.”
      
Joe was looking at the tangled mass of screens, wires and equipment. “You want
us to take this outside?”
      
“Yes. We’ll have to build a portable version. The box is small, everything else
can be too. Look at all these screens, we can probably use something like your
phone instead.”
      
“I’m sure the budget can run to a phone.” Joe would have gladly given his to
the cause, but he’d also like it back, and he knew that wouldn’t happen until
Scott was dead.
      
“Yes, of course. I’m sure we’ll be able to cobble something workable together.”
Which, Joe reflected, was probably how they came to be in this situation in the
first place.
      
“Am I right in thinking Professor,” Scott began, “that you don’t really know
how you created this box?”
      
“Correct.”
      
“And we can’t open it, or scan it, or probe it in any way because the quantum
structure would change and it might break.”
      
“Aaaahhhhh” the machine replied, realising the problem. “We can’t reproduce the
box.”
      
“No,” and Scott rubbed his chin. “We have made a breakthrough, we know it’s possible,
but we can’t reproduce it. Or tell others how to.”
      
“So have we really made a breakthrough at all?” Jane queried, more to go along
with the doctor than believing.
      
“Yes,” Joe interjected forcefully. “We now know it can happen. And if it can
happen, then other people can keep pushing until they find it. The answer is
here, we know where to look.”
      
Scott smiled, the moment of panic gone. “Exactly. But this does mean one
thing.”
     
“Yes?”
      
“Don’t anyone damage that box. It’s all we have.”
     
      
Dee sat in front of her laptop, trying to work out a story while being unmoved
by the rain hammering on the window behind her. She always found heavy rain
creepy, and she didn’t know why. The thing about writing for a local newspaper
is that most readers are after houses for sale, events to go to, stories about
them and their loved ones, and occasionally even some news. What they didn’t
want was an article about a science lab in the town, and so Dee knew the only
people who’d read her article – besides the staff, see point three – was some
arsehole who’d be looking for complaint letter fodder.
      
All of which might have made the more jaded journalist write any old shit and
submit it, and that’s exactly what many of Dee’s colleagues did. But she was
young and still had some semblance of pride, and the staff had seemed very
nice, and she wanted to do her best. So here she was, trying to explain the lab
in terms an arsehole would understand. She’d already stressed that no animals
were involved as they seemed very keen on that and spent ten minutes wondering
if she should transition to being science writer for a major publication, as
her thoughts always drifted to the majors, but that seemed as far off as the
moon, but if she just…
      
The phone rang, a series of staccato stabs, and Dee checked the caller ID. No
one she knew, but as a journalist you had to answer, so she flicked it on.
      
“Hello, Dee Nettleship.”
      
“Hello Miss Nettleship. You don’t know me, but…” Dee’s radar went off, please
god, Allah, the creator, whoever, be something interesting, “…I have something
you should know. Call it a story.”
      
“I am always looking for stories.” Please don’t be a pervert, please don’t be a
pervert, please…
      
“Do you have a