Critique of Come Out, Come Out Wherever You Are

(My comments will be in Purple. Words and punctuation that need to be deleted are in Red. Words and punctuation I added are in Purple. At the end I will have general comments about the passage.)

Come out, come out, wherever you are...

The flashlight in Ginger’s hand died, plunging her into pitch-black darkness. Great.

She slapped the plastic cylinder against her palm a few times until the bulb flickered back to life, bathing the room around her in a sickly yellow glow.

Wavering shadows and the skeletal remains of what were once a series of ornate cupboards took shape in the murky gloom. Ginger was back in Sagebrush Manor’s kitchen. Again. Nice description.

The exhausted light blinked once -- twice-- then faded away, this time for good. Nice description of the flashlight as being "exhausted."

Dammit. Four full house hours of searching the entire two storey, eighteen-nineteen 1819 manor house, twice over, and she hadn’t encountered a single sign of spiritual activity. What kind of haunted house was this anyway?

This sucks. At this rate, she thought, I’m never going to get my own weekly ghost-hunting program on the air. I need the presence of at least one ghost, preferably one with no reservations to showing itself in front of a camera. It doesn’t look like that’s going to happen. Ginger gave her flashlight a shake; it stayed dead. The writer is establishing motivation for the character.

Ooh, wonderful, she thought, now I have to try to make my way back through the rambling maze of rooms and corridors, in total darkness. What a night.

With hands outstretched to feel for the surface of a wall, Ginger inched to her left. The sticky silk of a dangling cobweb grazed her cheek and crossed over her lips. She brushed it away hastily, grimacing in the dark. Could this night get any worse? Apparently it could. A sound similar to a heavy footstep thudded suddenly in the next room. This is nice-- but it could be expanded upon a bit more. What does the cobweb feel like when it grazes her cheek? Moist? Slimy? Cold? Does it leave a feeling behind after she brushes it away. When she hears the noise in the next room what is her reaction? Is there any vibration accompanying the heavy noise? What about smell? Old houses have a distinctive, musty smell that adds to the creepiness. What does this house smell like?

Ginger froze, her ears perked to pick up further sounds. That damn well better be paranormal, she thought, because the alternative was far more frightening – a live human being in a place where none should be. Why is her first thought that the noise is from a live human rather than a ghost? She's there to hunt for ghosts. Why does she instantly think that what she heard might be live instead of dead?

Squinting, she peered into the darkness around her. Nothing. She could see nothing.

Her earlier inspection of the kitchen, conducted while the sun had still been well above the horizon, had revealed that there was only one way in, and one way out – through the dining room. The back door, along with almost every one of the first floor windows, had been thoroughly boarded up and nailed shut from both the inside and out. Very effective for keeping prowlers out, she thought, and keeping me in.

Something or someone made a muffled bump in the next room. The hairs on Ginger’s head stood on end. If it is a ghost, and she's a ghost hunter, there deliberately to look for ghosts, why is she so nervous? What gives her the idea that this is a live person rather than a ghost?

Who are you? She scanned her mind for any sense of a supernatural being. Most often, she would feel a presence; an unseen energy would flow through her, heightening her senses and making her body tingle. Now, finally, we are getting an inkling of why Ginger thinks this might be a human instead of a ghost. This comes two paragraphs too late.

Sometimes the spirits would touch her, caressing her softly, leaving welts or scratches or inflicting harsh blows. Other times they’d speak to her in muted murmurs or mumbles, and sometimes, in complete, coherent sentences. At this moment though, she sensed absolutely nothing, and it was starting to get irritating.

God-dammit, what the hell are you? Her mind ran through a list of likely suspects. A Mmouse? A Rrat? No, not a rat, not unless the Sagebrush was home to some kind of king-sized rodent; the tone of that footstep, if that’s what it had been, had sounded like it came from something larger – much larger. Something like a full grown man.

Ginger shuddered. It’s not a person, it can’t be. I locked the front door behind me. Didn’t I? Oh, shit, I don’t even remember closing it.

Drawing a deep, calming breath, Ginger pushed down her panic. Of course I closed the door. And locked it. There’s nothing here in this house with me but a spiritual entity, she told herself. It may be a particularly elusive one, but it’s still just a ghost nonetheless. And that’s the whole reason I’m here, stop being a crazy freak, do your job and investigate the bloody thing before it tires of you and goes back into obscurity.

General Comments:
The author does a nice job in this passage of building suspense. She teases the reader slowly, letting us have snippets of information. Every sentence moves the story forward, extablishes the atmosphere and the setting or gives us insight into Ginger's state of mind.

The quibble I have, and it's a slight one, is Ginger's instant assumption that the noise she hears is from a live person rather than a ghost. She's there to hunt for ghosts, so the noise really shouldn't surprise her that much. Yet her mind automatically makes the assumption that what she hears is not a ghost but is alive. The writer finally explains that Ginger does not get any of the normal feelings she does when sensing a ghost-- but this explanation comes a little too late. Some re-ordering might be in line and help keep the character's motivation and personality consistent:

With hands outstretched to feel for the surface of a wall, Ginger inched to her left. The sticky silk of a dangling cobweb grazed her cheek and crossed over her lips. She brushed it away hastily, grimacing in the dark. Could this night get any worse? Apparently it could. A sound similar to a heavy footstep thudded suddenly in the next room.

Ginger froze, her ears perked to pick up further sounds. Could this be what she had been waiting for? She closed her eyes to concentrate; normally she would feel a presence; an unseen energy would flow through her, heightening her senses and making her body tingle.

Sometimes the spirits would touch her, caressing her softly, leaving welts or scratches or inflicting harsh blows. Other times they’d speak to her in muted murmurs or mumbles, and sometimes, in complete, coherent sentences. This time, however, she sensed nothing in her mind, heard no ghostly whispers, felt no ghostly touches.

Something or someone made a muffled bump in the next room. The hairs on Ginger’s head stood on end, but not from the presence of any ghostly being. She felt no such presence in her mind.

God-dammit, what the hell are you? Her mind ran through a list of likely suspects. A mouse? A rat? No, not a rat, not unless the Sagebrush was home to some kind of king-sized rodent; the tone of that footstep, if that’s what it had been, had sounded like it came from something larger – much larger. Something like a full grown man.

Squinting, she peered into the darkness around her. Nothing. She could see nothing. Her earlier inspection of the kitchen, conducted while the sun had still been well above the horizon, had revealed that there was only one way in, and one way out – through the dining room. The back door, along with almost every one of the first floor windows, had been thoroughly boarded up and nailed shut from both the inside and out. Very effective for keeping prowlers out, she thought, and keeping me in.

Ginger shuddered. It’s not a person, it can’t be. I locked the front door behind me. Didn’t I? Oh, shit, I don’t even remember closing it.