The Soul Collector - By Tamela Quijas Page 0,16
a paranormal investigator?” She began, and her love of journalism far outweighed the oddly lustful sensations assailing her. “Was this particular profession one you’ve harbored since childhood?”
His pale eyes seemed to dance wickedly in the blinding glare of the overhead lights.
“No, my profession was never a childhood wish,” his expression was somber. “Instead, one fateful evening made me decide on this calling.”�
“So, ghost hunting was something you wanted to do, after completing college?” She was throwing out bait, but she hoped to glean a bit more about her enigmatic guest.
“I didn't pursue a college education, Miss Keyes,” he informed her in the most sedate of voices. “I preferred to sit in on classes.”�
“You sat in?”�
“Yes, I did.” The admission hung in the air.
“Why?” She couldn’t contain her curiosity. “Why did you sit in, instead of attending the local university? There’s plenty of programs out there, scholarships, grants, loans…”
“My financial stability never prevented me, Miss Keyes.” he smiled at her, his lips quirking with the interruption.
“Then, why?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Trust me,” she countered spontaneously. “My viewers would be thrilled to know what makes you tick.”
Her comment caused him to smirk and shake his head. “I won’t bore you with details of my past.”
Damn it, she wanted him to bore her! She bit her lip, gracing him with a piercing stare that blatantly said, “You need to talk.”
“At one time, a novel frenzy seized the civilized world’s imagination,” he began, and she wasn’t certain if he were merely gathering momentum. “The belief in the paranormal was a phenomenon that began in the early stages of the nineteen twenties, when séances and table rapping became all the rage.”�
“Any historian could tell me that…” �
“Questioning individuals dwell on this earth, Miss Keyes, and they long for an explanation into the paranormal. People seek intimate contact with a spiritual world they don’t comprehend. They’re insatiable, desperate to learn everything available of the plane existing beyond human experience.”�
If his fan base were anything to judge by, he was correct.
“The subject of paranormal studies is a maddening craze. There are classes offered at the local universities, the rooms filled with intelligent students who don’t find the paranormal a ridiculous hoax.”�
“Instead of taking these classes, you hung out in the wings?”
“I lingered in the shadows during late night lectures, when the classes were hosted by brilliant and gifted instructors.”
He left the sentence hanging, and Eva knew she could fill in the information. Yes, there were brilliant instructors, such as his Mr. Linton. More often than not, many teachers were ridiculous fools who proclaimed knowledge of the world’s paranormal eccentricities. Their observations caused countless people to stifle outraged laughter at the outright ludicrousness of the subject.
“I can admit becoming a paranormal investigator is not a wish,” he continued, and Eva had to restrain starting at the suddenness of his words. “It is a profession that basically falls into your lap.”
“Really?” She asked, her brows lifting.
“Perhaps I should say hands?” He interjected, his own clenching into fists. “There must be an interest, an all-consuming belief in the afterlife and spirituality, drawing a person to this profession.”�
Smooth, Mr. Angeles, you’re oh so very smooth.
“Do you consider ghost hunting a viable profession?” The seriousness of her expression unconsciously mirrored his.
“Ah, yes,” he smiled, clearly warming. The action caused her to sit back and anxiously tap her finger to her right earlobe. She detected an odd hum in the orifice, which was rising to a deafening crescendo. “Paranormal investigating is a profession, Miss Keyes, a hobby, and an obsession. If you don’t believe me, you should ask the same questions to the nearly eight thousand self-proclaimed paranormal investigators throughout the United States, and the millions of believers worldwide.”
Eva slid her hand back to her lap. The hum within her ear became incessant, although the tone returned to the low reverberation just fractions beneath of her own voice. She felt the sudden urge to ask the questions as they came to her, unrehearsed, and unscripted.
“Mr. Angeles,” she was aware he minutely winced at her refusal to use his first name. “I’ll admit I’ve watched every episode of your show, and I would like to ask you the one question all your fans want to know.”
He quirked a colorless brow, the glow in his eyes somewhat amused. “What would that be?”
“What would it take to be on your team of investigators?”
“I would have to say credibility,” he answered without a moment's hesitation. “A person must truly believe in what they’re investigating. Neither my team, nor