by Sonia Singh
The ringing continued. With a muffled curse, he slid out of bed and into a pair of jeans. He never bothered with pajamas. Why should he when nature had created the perfect skin for him to sleep and stroll around the house in. Much to Wilder’s annoyance.
Stumbling down the stairs, Coulter swung open the front door and glared into the face of a kid who looked like the teenage version of Spike Lee. “What in hell do you want?”
The kid gazed back at him with heavy-lidded brown eyes and began to speak in a monotone. “Hello sir, my name is Marcus. I live in a bad area with lots of crime. My mom is a single parent. I’m working hard to keep myself off the street.”
Coulter yawned.
Unfazed, Marcus continued in the same dull tone. “That is why I am selling magazine subscriptions. So I can go to sports camp. Because sports keep troubled youths like myself off the street. With just one subscription—”
“Christ, you suck.” Coulter leaned back against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. “How you expect to earn a dime is beyond me.”
“So you gonna buy anything or what?”
Coulter smirked. “Not on your life.”
“Whatever.”
“Just out of curiosity, where is this so-called sports camp?” Coulter asked.
Marcus turned to leave. “Hawaii.”
Coulter whistled. “Nice. You’ll never get there though. You’re not hungry enough. The most you’re gonna make is a bus ticket back to the projects.”
Marcus glared at him.
“I can help you,” Coulter offered. “Rich neighborhood like this filled with liberal white people—you could be flyin’ first class to the Islands.”
“Why would you want to help me?”
Coulter shrugged. “To get into heaven. Why do you care?”
Marcus stared at him suspiciously.
Coulter couldn’t blame him. Why did he want to help the kid? Maybe because he remembered a time when handouts and hustling were the only way he could earn a living.
Hell, that was just last week.
But he also remembered what it was like being Marcus’s age and on your own, trying to get a slice of what everybody else had for yourself.
Coulter held the door open. “Might as well come in.” Marcus now looked wary. Coulter sighed. “See here, you woke me up from a sound sleep, and the fact that I’m offerin’ to help you instead of keelin’ over from a bitch of a hangover is a stroke of luck for you. Now I plan on eatin’ something and you’re welcome to join me.” He yawned and stretched. “Come in or leave. Either way, shut the door.”
Coulter walked back into the house, scratching his armpit and heading for the kitchen.
After a moment he heard the door shut and the sound of sneaker-clad feet following him.
They ended up ordering a pizza.
Coulter had taken one look in the fridge and turned away with disgust. Marcus had peered in after him. “I’ve never seen so much organic stuff in my life. What’s tofu chocolate?”
Coulter shuddered. “A sin.”
Now after five slices and two beers—two Cokes for Marcus (ordered along with the pizza because Wilder didn’t have a drop of caffeine in the house)—Coulter sat back and rubbed his stomach. “So what’ve we learned so far?”
Marcus scratched his head. “The trick isn’t to push. The best salesmen in the world are the ones who look casual and make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
“And?”
“Smile and be charming.”
“But?”
“None of that crazy smiling,” Marcus added. “And none of that slick charm either. It has to be genuine. So find something about the other person you genuinely like—even if it’s something dumb like their breath doesn’t stink—and let that show through.”
Coulter smiled. “Exactly. You want them to give you their money and then thank you for taking it.”
Marcus looked down at a sheet of paper. “About the new pitch, do I have to say I live in the ghetto? I mean, my neighborhood is bad and it’s not safe at night or during the day sometimes—”
“You’ve got maybe a minute to grab someone’s attention,” Coulter explained. “You want to appeal to their emotions. The word ghetto does that. Low-income urban area doesn’t have the same grab factor.”
Marcus nodded and smiled. “I think I might actually get to Hawaii.”
Coulter lifted a bottle of beer. “You’ll have a hula girl on each arm before you know it.”
“I wish I could see you in action though. You know, like a demonstration.”
Coulter grinned. “You think I was gonna toss you outta the nest so soon? There’s a diner around the corner that calls itself a bistro. Lots of sidewalk seating. We’ll start there.”
Marcus frowned. “But what if they don’t allow soliciting?”
Coulter shrugged. “We’re not solicitin’. We’re providin’ people with the opportunity to help a fine young man change his life.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “Give me a sec to get changed.”
“Thanks man, I mean really,” Marcus said.
Coulter waved away the thanks and then had a thought. “If you don’t sell enough today, come back to the house tomorrow and hit up the dude who lives here. You can’t find a bigger bleedin’ heart.”
Marcus reached for another slice of pizza. “The ghost hunter?”
Coulter raised a brow. “He took me in, didn’t he?”
24
By the time they drove back to the city, regrouped, and returned to the inn, it was dark and raining. Scott did a quick check of the upstairs and came back to the lobby wearing a puzzled frown. Everything appeared to be normal.
“Place looks harmless to me,” Coulter said.
Scott’s gaze moved around the quiet Inn. “Poltergeist activity is usually of a short duration but…”
Coulter cocked an eyebrow at Scott. “Poltergeist? As in little blond girl meets bad TV reception?”
“Poltergeist, as in the German word for noisy spirit,” Scott corrected. “Do either of you sense anything?”
“The buzzing is gone,” Anjali said.
Coulter pressed his hand to his stomach with an exaggerated grimace. “I sense…hunger pains.”
Scott ignored him. He found the calm unsettling. It reminded him of the quiet before the storm.
“Maybe we scared the spirits off?” Anjali said brightly. “Might as well head back. It’s dark and—”
“Coulter, where are you going?” Scott asked.
“To explore the kitchen,” he said over his shoulder.
“Are you picking up anything?” Scott felt a tiny thrill of excitement. Was the house reacting to Coulter or vice versa?
“Depends on what they have in the fridge,” Coulter replied. “There’s got to be something to eat around here.” He pushed through the dividing door and left the room.
“We’re not leaving, are we?” Anjali said.
Scott reached out and lightly squeezed her shoulder. “This time we know what to expect.” He held up the ghost-hunting kit. “We’re better prepared.”
She frowned. “That’s not really comforting. Every time I sit down in a dentist’s chair, I know what to expect. Doesn’t make it any better.”
Scott began unpacking. “We’ll set up the cameras in the front room.”
“Aren’t you worried the poltergeist will damage the equipment?” Anjali asked.
Scott removed his laptop from the case and placed it on the coffee table. “That’s what surge protectors and a UPS—uninterruptible power supply—are for.”
Anjali cocked her head to the side. “How will that help if the poltergeist smashes the equipment against the wall?”
“It won’t.” He double-checked that the cameras; audio, light, and UV sensors; and EMF meter were all synched to the laptop.
Anjali pointed to the EMF meter. “Why didn’t that pick up anything before?”
“It did,” Scott said, “As soon as the doors began slamming and the chande
liers swinging.”
“Some early warning system.”
He grinned. “You’re my early warning system. Between you and this thing…” His voice trailed off as the meter began beeping.
Anjali grabbed his arm. “What’s going on? Why is it doing that? I don’t feel anything!” Her grip tightened painfully, and it was all Scott could do not to wince.
Holding the meter out before him, he began walking forward. Anjali followed, still maintaining her death grip on his arm. The machine’s beeping became faster. Scott turned around, moving in a wide circle—difficult to do since Anjali clung to him like a barnacle, making navigation tricky.
They were now at the opposite end of the lobby. “There’s something on the other side of this door,” Scott said.
Suddenly the door banged open. Anjali screamed and grabbed on to his waist with both arms.
Coulter came through the doorway carrying two bottles of wine.
Anjali let go of Scott and let out a deep breath. “We thought you were a poltergeist.”
Coulter set down the two bottles of wine. “The fridge was empty. Luckily I bumped into the wine cellar.”
“I’m not sure about this.” Scott came forward and examined the bottles. “We’re professionals. We shouldn’t be delving into their stock.”
Coulter shrugged and reached for the bottles. “You’re the boss.”
“Wait.” Scott picked up one of the bottles. “We’ll keep the Cab. You can take back the Merlot.”
The rain drummed against the roof while Scott paced up and down the lobby.
He’d double-checked the equipment at least a dozen times, asked Anjali and Coulter repeatedly if they “sensed anything,” and raided the wine cellar for two bottles of the Pinot.
“What time is it, boss?” Coulter asked, stretching out on a settee.
Scott looked down at his watch. “Three…the witching hour.
“More like the infomercial hour,” Anjali said. She was sitting on the floor, her back against the wall.
“Do you want a chair?” Scott asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t want to be sitting on any furniture in case it starts to move.”
A lazy smile drifted across Coulter’s face as he looked at her. “Don’t worry, Angel, I’ll protect you.”
Anjali giggled.
A stab of annoyance shot through Scott. He told himself it was due to the frustrating lack of spiritual activity.
Coulter sat up, reached for the bottle of wine on the coffee table, and poured himself another glass. He held out the bottle and looked at them.
“No thanks,” Scott said.
Anjali uncurled herself and leaned forward, holding out her empty glass. “You read my mind.”
Coulter’s lips curved in a teasing smile. “I thought that was your thing, sweetheart.”
She giggled again.
Scott rolled his eyes. The man wasn’t even that good-looking. Yesterday his mother had dropped by the firm, took one look at Coulter and told him he was the spitting image of a young Paul Newman.
She’d never compared Scott to any actors before. Although she’d once said his eyebrows reminded her of Tyrone Power’s.
“What’s scarier?” Anjali mused, sitting back down. “An evil alien or an evil ghost?”
“Evil alien,” Coulter said. “Ghosts don’t usually impregnate drooling babies with acid running through their veins inside you. Right boss?”
“Not that I’ve heard.” Scott walked over to the window and looked out. No spooky faces looked back at him. Nothing but the dark night.
Coulter stretched out his legs and rested them on the coffee table. “Seems to be there’s a lot of waitin’ around in this business.”
Scott stared pointedly at him until, with a sigh, Coulter removed his feet and rested them on the ground.
“Tell me, boss, what is it about all this ghost stuff that gives ya such a hard-on?”
“Since you put it so eloquently,” Scott said, “something did happen to me when I was about ten.”
“You never told me this,” Anjali said. “I’ve told you all about my childhood.”
Coulter snorted. “You chicks and your complicated childhoods. Y’all assume every guy wants to know your whole history.”
Anjali glared at him.
Scott cleared his throat. “When I was ten, Nana Wilder died. Now my grandmother wasn’t the warmest of women. She was obsessed with neatness and order.”
Coulter snorted. “Apple doesn’t fall too far, does it?”
“Yes, I do prefer washing my dirty dishes as opposed to stacking them in the corner of the bedroom,” Scott said. “May I continue?”
Anjali smiled. “Please. We want to hear.”
Somewhat placated, Scott continued. “Nana didn’t like people in the house and she especially didn’t like anyone in her bedroom, which was separate from my grandfather’s. Everyone was terrified of her.”
Coulter tipped the remaining contents of his glass into his mouth. “Makes ya wonder about your grandparents, doesn’t it? About what their sex life was like?”
“No it does not make me wonder.”
“My parents have separate bedrooms,” Anjali said. “But that’s because my dad snores.”
Coulter turned to her. “Snoring ain’t too bad.”
“But he also coughs from his acid reflux, has trouble breathing from his sleep apnea, and his hair smells like coconut oil. He only has like five hairs but he likes to keep them conditioned.”
“Anyway,” Scott resumed his story. “After the funeral service, mourners gathered at my grandfather’s house. Relatives mingled in dark suits and dresses. Hushed conversations carried on around me. I stood by the window at the bottom of the staircase, watching my older cousins, sleeves rolled up, ties loosened, talking outside. No one paid me any mind. That’s when the idea came to me. Slowly, I started up the stairs.
“I kept expecting an adult to pop up behind me and demand to know what I was doing but no one did, and soon I was standing in front of the door to my grandmother’s bedroom. For a moment I just stood there, staring at the door. It seemed like a long time before I reached for the doorknob. And then I was in, the door shut behind me.”
“What did you see?” Anjali asked, eyes wide.
“Well, I’m getting to that,” Scott said.
She looked sheepish. “Sorry. I’m one of those people who reads the ending of a book first.”
Scott took another sip of his wine, relishing his role as storyteller. “I gazed around the bedroom. The walls were completely bare—no artwork of any kind. The cream duvet covering the heavy four-poster bed was pulled tight, smooth, not a single wrinkle. I peeked under the bed. Enough space for a person to hide but there was nothing, not a speck of dust.
“The dresser was bare except for a silver tray of glass perfume bottles. Her closet was perfectly organized, hatboxes stacked neatly on the upper shelves, each hanger spaced perfectly apart. The room did have one personal touch—a black and white photograph in an oval frame on the nightstand. Naturally, it was of Nana herself.”
Scott could see the photograph in his mind clear as day. His grandmother’s dark hair scraped back into a severe bun. Under thick straight brows, her eyes were cold, lips pressed into a thin line. The memory still unnerved him. “I was about to leave the room,” he continued, “when I felt a little rebellious. So I rearranged the pillows on her bed. I took the perfume bottles off her dresser and—”
“Not really experienced with rebellion, were you, boss?” Coulter said, amused.
“Obviously not,” Scott replied. “But I wasn’t going to trash the room. I just wanted to rumple it up a bit. I hid the perfume bottles inside a dresser drawer. I rumpled the bedcover. And then I took her photograph and placed it facedown. Quietly, I left the room and I was barely at the head of the stairs when guilt hit me. Nana was dead and this was how I paid my respects?
“I quickly retraced my steps, opened the door, and I was hal
fway across the room when I stopped dead in my tracks. The perfume bottles were back on the tray. The bedcover was pulled tight, pillows neatly arranged. The photograph was upright and facing me. And it was cold inside, much colder than it had been before.”
Coulter rubbed his jaw and looked thoughtful. “You’re sure one of your little cousins wasn’t hiding in the room and put everything back?”
“No, I explored every inch of that room. And I was only gone for a few moments.”
Anjali shivered. “Don’t tell me you saw her.”
“I didn’t exactly stick around. I ran downstairs so fast I fell and rolled down half the stairs, but I kept going. I didn’t stop until I was outside, the sun warm on my face, and with living, breathing people around me. It was months before I could fall asleep with the lights off. But eventually my fear did turn to interest.”
A shrill piercing ring broke through the quiet.
All three of them jumped.
“Shit!” Coulter nearly dropped the glass he was refilling.
“Sorry.” Scott pulled out his cell phone but the ringing stopped before he could answer. He checked to see the number of the missed call but the phone went dead. “That’s odd…I charged the battery this afternoon.”
“Scott!” Anjali said sharply. “The buzzing. It’s back.”
The lights in the room began blinking on and off.
And then all hell broke loose.
25
Looking around the room at the blinking lights and the shaking tables and chairs, Coulter had one thought and one thought only.
Jesus Christ Almighty, I’m gonna be on the cover of People!
Well hell, they should alert the media. Call Oprah! Screw the fat girls crying over their weight.
Anjali was crouched in the corner, hands covering her ears. “Can’t you hear it?”
“Huh?” He snapped back to the reality in front of him.
“Coulter, what do you feel?” Scott shouted.
What was he feeling?
A strange charge snapped through the air around him. It traveled along the backs of his arms and down his spine.