Ghost Bully

by Brian Corley

  I walked into a pottery workshop with work displayed along the walls and items on tables in various stages of progress. On the far side of the room, in front a kiln, played a band with two singers, a guitar player, a drummer behind a small kit, and a little string quartet. In the middle of the room sat four stations of pottery wheels, all attended by local artisans with faces fixed in looks of focus and determination.

  Behind them at each station—very closely behind—sat ghosts with their arms wrapped around each person as though they were helping guide their hands along the clay. Each ghost mugged for their friends and various onlookers as they cheered them on. It was about that time that I recognized the band was playing “Unchained Melody” from the Righteous Brothers.

  I rolled my eyes, laughed, and turned to leave when I noticed the girl I’d seen the last few nights directly behind me. Dressed in all black again, this time with a perfectly tailored leather motorcycle jacket, jeans, and dingo-style boots, she looked stylishly tough and intimidating as hell.

  She smiled when she saw me.

  “Can you believe they’ve been doing this for like thirty years?” she said. “Same song, for hours, until they finally close up shop.”

  She spoke in a rich voice with a bit of a scratch and a hint of an accent that I couldn’t quite place. Maybe Middle Eastern—Israeli, I thought.

  “Thirty years,” I replied. “No wonder they have it down so well. These guys are good.”

  “It’s kind of a thing. Newbies come for fun while the old-timers come to make fun of it and pretend they’re not having a good time.”

  “I’m Jonah,” I said, offering a hand.

  “I know,” she replied, shaking it.

  “I’ve seen you around, haven’t I?”

  “Yes,” she said, and I realized how much cooler this conversation would be if we had drinks in our hands so we could take sips in between our exchanges while posing in nonchalant stances. She continued, “I’ve seen you around.”

  Damn, she was mysterious. What should I talk about … the weather? No. Books? No. I wondered how I could read books now, and if I could ghost one. Then, I focused back on the conversation.

  “So, what did you do?” I started with a terrible question and continued with, “You know, before—all this.”

  She looked somewhat amused.

  “Ah, before this,” she said, looking around and acting as though I meant the pottery shop. “Before this, I was a soldier.”

  That would explain her ability to carry herself in such a way as to simultaneously attract and terrify me.

  “What brought you to Austin?” I said, cringing inside as soon as the words came out of my mouth. God, I am boring—this sucks.

  “I was reassigned,” she replied and volleyed back, “what about you—what did you do?”

  “What do you know about spreadsheets?”

  “Very little.”

  “Then you may be impressed to learn that I was a business analyst.”

  “No. Not really, that sounds boring.”

  “I’ll have you know, it not only sounds boring—it is.”

  She looked down and laughed, and I started to feel as though I might actually be able to hold a conversation with this girl when I noticed a familiar face outside—Willard Hensch.

  “Something wrong?” she asked, looking behind her.

  Willard noticed us looking and tried to obscure himself behind a group of ghosts hanging out in the front.

  “Would you mind excusing me?” I said.

  She nodded. “Of course,” she said and mingled her way toward another group.

  I floated up through the roof for a better vantage point of the parking lot and saw Willard standing behind a group of spirits with his knees slightly bent so as not to be seen from inside the building. Some of the ghosts in the group observed his presence but ignored him. I made eye contact as I floated down.

  “What’s up?” I said before touching down on the asphalt, pleased with my pun.

  Willard didn’t seem to get it. He straightened up, looked me in the eye, and said, “Hello.”

  “Little surprised to see you here,” I said. “Doesn’t exactly seem like your scene. You know, being around other people—outside.”

  “Yes. Well. I have been forced to try new things as of late. I was just passing through, and I noticed this—gathering—so I thought I would look in.”

  I didn’t know Willard well, but I felt like we’d spent enough quality time together to get a sense that he wasn’t telling the truth. Something was off.

  “So, are you living over here now? I mean, have you found another space?”

  “Yes. Yes, I found a nice quiet house owned by a man that is rarely home. Travels a lot for work.”

  I could tell he thought he really nailed that delivery as a look of self-satisfaction spread across his face. He had changed though—literally. He was wearing something new, probably for the first time in years. A gray button-down, dark-gray slacks, and some sort of sensible dress shoe with a rubbery sole—on the athletic side of the orthotic shoe continuum.

  Wasn’t a good look, wasn’t a bad look. In fact, I would describe it as a look for someone that didn’t want to draw attention, which fit Willard quite well, actually, and was a step up from before. So good for him.

  “Well, good, I’m glad you found a place,” I said. “You know where to find me if you ever need anything.”

  “I certainly do.”

  Then he was gone, just like that. A couple ghosts in the group beside me noticed as well, and I took note that Willard’s blinking out surprised them.

  “Huh,” I said out loud to myself.

  Seph taught me how to do it, and I wondered how Willard learned. Politely nodding to the group, I made my way back inside to find—I forgot to ask her name.

  I floated through the door to the familiar tune of “Unchained Melody” and scanned the room for the Cheshire Cat girl. There were new ghosts at two of the stations and the other two sat empty. It looked as though people were heading home for the night, which made sense because it was late.

  I looked around a few minutes more before giving up. She must have left, so I decided to head home.

  I was ready to be back and didn’t feel like taking the long way, so I just blinked myself there. Finding the house quiet and dark when I returned, I floated to my room, turned on the TV to break the silence, and watched three little superheroes save a town from a turban-wearing monkey until I faded out into morning.

  Chapter 17

  The next few nights were fairly uneventful. Max and I hung out a lot and watched TV, cracked a few jokes, and played a few games. Max would set up my cards facing away from him, and I’d guide him to which one I wanted to play, crackling my moves through a portable radio. We always liked getting groups together to play board games, and he was good at finding new ones before they really caught on.

  Zoe, Quinton, and Lin would sometimes stop by after class and play with us too. I’d set out after everyone left or Max went to sleep to scan the neighborhood, but there didn’t seem to be any more listless spirits in the area for me to help. I ended up back at the house, flipping channels between twenty-four-hour news stations and cartoons.

  I discovered that I couldn’t ghost a book to read because I was just making a copy of what I saw. If I didn’t know the words—all the words—I couldn’t ghost a book.

  Max was kind enough to set up my old computer so that the screen wouldn’t time out. I could tap the space bar to start and stop an audiobook whenever I wanted to. We downloaded a few like The Hobbit, which had always been one of my favorites and read like a new book to me every few years I went back to it. We added some Neil Gaiman and a couple Douglas Adams books. Of course, as part of the process, I had to give him my login. He went on to make a big show of what he could do now that he had acce
ss to all my old apps and spent a significant amount of time checking my browser history.

  Thankful for private browsing, I wandered around the house looking for something to do while he entertained himself. I noticed he had a glass of water on the nightstand next to his bed, so I went ahead and knocked that over and onto his pillow for him.

  Finally, the weekend came around, and we got a call with a new case. We were headed back to Tarrytown to help a family that recently noticed some very strange things. Zoe brought the van by to pick us up, and we met her outside. Max thought ahead and didn’t bring a radio outside with him, which allowed him to proclaim “shotgun” in a loud, clear voice as the van rolled to a stop and which prevented me from beating him to it.

  Max strode victoriously over to the passenger side of the vehicle while I phased through the van. Once inside, I hovered between Zoe and Max as she gave us the rundown on our clients for the night: a young couple, Barb and Tim, thirty and thirty-two respectively, with a four-year-old little girl named Haley. Within the past week, they’d noticed strange sounds and cold spots around the house—particularly in Haley’s room—and she’d started talking as though someone was in the room with her. After checking in a few times to find her alone, Barb took her to a psychologist as well as her priest. Apparently, this case was a referral. Thank you, Father Chandler.

  We came to a stop down the street from their modest bungalow, with another perfectly manicured lawn.

  When I phased through the front door, I found Mom and Dad on the couch and heard a gruff voice down the hall. Sensing a familiar energy, I floated down the hallway and stopped short of what I guessed was Haley’s room to overhear what was being said.

  “Then, right after you fall asleep, that’s when I’ll get ya.” The gruff voice of a six-foot-two bald man boomed over the shoulder of little Haley.

  I looked into a stereotypical little girl’s room: pink walls with a mural of a castle on one side of the room, and two sliding-door closets that took up the width of the other side of the room. Stuffed animals and toys lined shelves up and down a wall, and there was a custom toy box/bench built in underneath a picture window with stylish shades and gauzy white curtains for the fourth. An antique wrought-iron bed sat against the castle-painted wall and took up most of the middle of the room. Haley sat on a cute purple rocking horse while she brushed the hair of a blonde plastic doll. Unlike Eric, she wasn’t scared at all. She rocked back and forth, smiling.

  “No, you won’t,” she said. “You can’t do anything. You’re just a ghost, silly.”

  The burly ghost mumbled a string of inaudible curses and kicked his leg out in frustration, barely making a small stuffed dog wiggle on the floor. Little Haley had transformed the muscle-bound apparition to the afterlife equivalent of Sweetums from the Muppets.

  Impressed with our youngest client, I phased out of the room and hurried back toward the van.

  “Alright,” my voice crackled over the speakers. “I got this. He probably won’t move on, but I don’t think we’ll have any trouble getting him to leave.”

  “Copy that,” Zoe said, turning the key to the van and putting it in gear.

  The van pulled in front of the client’s house, but I decided to go topside and through the roof to check on Haley and bald biker Sweetums.

  It wasn’t long before Tim and Barb gathered Haley to meet the Psy-kicks in the living room, and I watched my case slump onto the bed with his feet still on the floor and his head in his hands. I peeked through the ceiling.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  He looked up slowly, initially failing to register my pun, but slowly shook his head as recognition dawned.

  “Damn, son, I’m beginning to think you like me.”

  I floated down to the floor.

  “Yeah,” I said. “On opposite day.”

  “Wow, really nailed that one,” he said sarcastically.

  “Look, they can’t all be gems,” I replied. “One-liners are more of a numbers game for me.”

  He nodded. “What did you do with my friends?” he asked, standing up to loom over me.

  “We came to an understanding,” I shot back, as cool as I could muster. “I’m pretty sure they’re looking for you though.”

  “Good. And when we—”

  “I’m pretty sure you don’t want them to find you,” I interrupted.

  Judging by the way I found myself flying through the house and bouncing against the wall to the garage, I could tell he didn’t like the way I talked to him. I got up as quickly as I could, but it wasn’t long before he was in the room with me.

  The garage was neat and organized, with everything in its place. Lots of cleaning supplies lined the shelves on the walls, but I didn’t notice any tools. One black hybrid car and a silver minivan took up most of the space in the two-car garage and were the only things between me and big bald Sweetums over there.

  He looked at me with wild eyes, shoulders squared, “muscles” flexing.

  Quinton opened the door, walked through him, and set down a bundle of incense. My shiny-domed adversary looked surprised as Quinton walked back through him into the house. The burly ghost took a whiff of the incense, and I watched his expression change as he registered that he could actually smell something for the first time in what I guessed was a long time. He nodded his head as the corners of his mouth descended.

  “That’s really nice,” he said.

  “Sandalwood,” I replied, “and some other stuff. I think this guy Kevin makes it?”

  “Huh,” he said.

  His face hardened, and he stalked toward me, all brawn and determination. I wondered if I could take him one on one and decided to close the distance between us. I took my best swing and could tell I hurt him, but I could also tell he’d been in a lot of fights because he punched me back three times before I registered what was going on. After the third, he just pushed me back against the garage door and laughed at me.

  Fighting isn’t like the movies. It helps to actually train—or get in enough of them that you know what you’re doing. Most of the fights I’d been in during my life were broken up before too much could happen. In fact, by this point, Vice Principal Walker would have already been between us and leading us back to his office, but I didn’t expect him to show.

  I got to my feet with a plan. I’d been wanting to try something for a few nights now, and this was the perfect time to experiment. I held my arms up and said, “Wait, wait, don’t hit me yet.”

  “Alright,” he said and started circling the room, surveying its contents. The minivan was backed into the garage, and he seemed to find something interesting toward the back hatch.

  “So, we can do this the easy way or the hard way,” I threatened, though I think it came out hollow because he just chuckled as he reached into the van and pulled out a ghosted tire iron. His eyebrows shot up as he turned the tire iron over in his hands, smiled, and looked back to me. It looked like he didn’t know he could do that. I think I inadvertently taught him a valuable lesson I was about to regret.

  He went on to pull the classic bad-guy move of holding the iron in one hand while menacingly tapping it in the other. I guessed it was a classic for a reason: it looked pretty scary.

  “Let’s try the hard way,” he said, moving slowly toward me.

  I smiled as energy began to flow around my hands, and I summoned my inner Goku and prepared to perform the Kamehameha.

  Little by little, I saw my adversary’s shoulders drop, as though memories of our last encounter dribbled down his mind like yolk from an egg cracked atop his nefarious bald noggin. His face was lit from the reflected light of the energy I was gathering in my hands, and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed frost forming on the windshield of the hybrid.

  WHOOSH!

  I released the pent-up energy all at once, throwing him up, back, and maybe out of the house.
I flew straight up and past the roof as fast as I could to see—yes—he was definitely out of the house and arcing across several others.

  Cool, it worked. Years of watching Dragon Ball Z finally paid off. My homework might not have been as detailed at the time, but knowing how to shoot a beam of energy from my hands sure trumped a fourth-grade book report at the moment.

  I pursued him as fast as I could and dropped down next to him where he lay in the middle of a street.

  “What are you, like some low-rent Pennywise?” I asked.

  “I don’t know who that is. It’s just that kids can almost see us,” he replied.

  “They’re kids—and you’ve never read or seen IT?”

  “Oh yeah, are you talking about the clown guy?”

  “Yep.”

  “What the hell? No. No, man, I’m not some pervy clown. I just want to be acknowledged. I want someone to know I’m there.”

  “Whatever. You don’t mess with kids,” I said.

  “We’ve done it for years.”

  “That’s not a valid argument.”

  “Fine.”

  “So, you’re done now, right?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I’m done. I promise.”

  “If I catch you back here, or hear about you messing with kids again, things will go a lot worse for you than they did tonight.”

  “Oh yeah? How so?” he asked.

  “I’ve got a deep, dark pit full of big bad dudes way worse than you. I catch wind of you pulling this kind of stuff, or that you’re back in this neighborhood, then you’re joining them … for a long time. You won’t like it. It won’t be fun.”

  “I’ve been to prison before,” he said.

  “Not like this, nothing like this. Pennywise has nightmares about my pit.”

  His forehead relaxed as though he were no longer thinking of a comeback, but of terrifying consequences. I was lucky enough to have my supernatural jail bit work again.