Karma Moon—Ghost Hunter

by Melissa Savage

  “You touch a dress from the beyond and you’ll definitely get Velma credit for it.”

  I push my glasses up at the bridge, take a deep breath and walk two steps closer to the wardrobe.

  The dress rests across a rusted wire hanger that looks as old as the dress itself. The fabric hangs, wilted and drained of its soul, threadbare and fragile. A once-valued treasure, battered by age and waiting…longing to be important to someone again.

  This time I blow air out in a burst and let my fingers reach slowly toward the sleeve. They are shaking.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  The material is sharp and crunchy, the brittle threads barely hanging on. I run my hand down the seams, looking for a pocket of some kind.

  “I think I found one,” I tell Mags, slipping my hand inside the material.

  The tips of my fingers reach deep down inside and touch something.

  WHAT-IFS

  Please don’t be a pinky toe.

  Please don’t be a pinky toe.

  Please don’t be a pinky toe.

  “There’s something in here,” I tell her.

  “Pull it out,” she says.

  Whatever is inside is crisp and brittle, even more so than the dress. I take the edge between my fingertips and draw it slowly to the light.

  “What is it?” Mags asks, wedging a cheek next to mine.

  “A card of some kind,” I tell her. “It looks burnt.”

  “Yeah,” she says.

  “Did Ms. Lettie say anything about a fire when she was talking about Mr. and Mrs. Honeycutt?”

  “I don’t think so,” Mags says. “I mean, it was a buggy accident, there could have been a fire.”

  I point to the smudged image on the front of the card.

  “This looks like a cake, doesn’t it?” I ask.

  “Maybe it’s an old birthday card,” Mags says. “Wait. Maybe it’s a wedding invitation.”

  “Right,” I say.

  She points a finger. “Take a picture of it.”

  I place the dusty card on the bed and take a picture.

  “Take a bunch,” she says. “Just in case. The people on YouTube say that sometimes you don’t see the ghosts but they end up in your picture later.”

  I nod and aim again.

  “Can you make out the letters?” She squints.

  “That’s definitely an L.” I point. “And maybe that one is an I?”

  “That one might be an A.” She points to a third letter. “And is that a three?” She gives it a sniff. “It smells,” she says.

  I sniff it too. “It smells like fancy perfume at the counters in Macy’s in Manhattan,” I say.

  She gives it another big whiff.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Like roses. Lots and lots of stinky roses all stuck up in one bottle.” That’s when the dress slips off the hanger and onto the floor of the wardrobe. And when it does, rose petals float up into the air from somewhere deep inside the dress.

  Dried rose petals.

  Mags turns to me with wide eyes. “Just like in the dining hall,” she breathes behind her hand.

  I nod.

  “This,” she says. “Is getting real.”

  “Totally real,” I agree.

  * * *

  After we brief Totally Rad and Lights Out! at breakfast, we decide to go and find Nyx. We try Fun City first, and when the manager tells us Nyx doesn’t have a shift until Thursday, we look him up on Google and map the address to his house.

  While we walk, I pummel Mags with more paranormal questions about the official blueprint.

  “What about Tweety?” I ask.

  “I knew I’d be sorry for showing you that movie, I knew it,” Mags mumbles. “You’re going to torture me with your questions for life.”

  “I’m just saying,” I go on. “The pet canary had to have something to do with the haunting.”

  “It was a bird,” Mags tells me. “How does a canary have anything to do with anything paranormal?”

  “Ah…hello, it dies at the beginning of the movie.”

  “So?”

  “So, every single thing in a story has a purpose,” I tell her. “That’s what makes a good story. If something doesn’t mean anything, it’s edited out. That’s what Mr. Cavanaugh says in creative writing class.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes the detail can just be a red herring.”

  “The canary isn’t a red herring,” I tell her. “First off, it’s not red, it’s yellow. And second, they made too big a deal about Tweety for him not to mean something major.”

  “The thing dies in like the second scene,” she says.

  “Right, but then the little girl sees it before her mom flushes it down the toilet and then they end up having a funeral for it and bury it in the garden. And there’s even yet another part where the workmen accidentally dig it up later. Those are all clues.”

  “Clues for what?”

  “That Tweety haunts the family,” I tell her.

  “I’m sorry, but that’s even dumber than the Jell-O.” She snorts.

  “Says you.”

  “Sometimes a canary is just a canary,” she says.

  I stop. “Wait.” I look down at my phone and look up again. “I think this is it.”

  “906?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Yep, it’s this one.” She points to a small cabin made of logs and a front porch lined with eight different-colored rocking chairs.

  The front door has a copper engraving that reads THE BROWNS.

  I ring the doorbell and we stand and wait on a welcome mat that has a cartoon picture of a Bigfoot sitting on top of a mountain.

  “See?” I point to it. “Even Nyx believes in Bigfoot.”

  She gives me her eyes-to-the-sky roll and says, “He would.”

  The door opens and a girl in an Inkwell & Brew sweatshirt is standing in front of us. She’s got long, dark brown hair in waves with these super-cool hot-pink highlights and sparkly gold threads weaved in.

  “Yeah?” she says, taking a bite out of an apple.

  She has the exact same smile as Nyx and the same color eyes too.

  “Um…yeah,” I stutter. “We are here to see…um—”

  “Netflix, right?” she exclaims. “I’m right, right? You’re Charlie’s new friends from the Stanley Hotel? The Netflix crew?”

  “Um…yeah,” I say.

  “Come on in.” She waves us inside. “Oh, man, all that kid talks about these days is you guys. I’m on my way out, I have class, so just make yourself at home. The fridge is full, so help yourself.” She takes another bite of her apple. “Charlie!” she shouts up the steps. “You have company!”

  We watch her grab a Colorado State University windbreaker and a blue backpack and shuffle out the door.

  “Later!” she says.

  “Ah…yeah, so, see you! I mean, you know…peace out.”

  She stops chewing and blinks at me and then smiles before slamming the door.

  “Peace out?” Mags mumbles.

  “It’s just something you say,” I tell her.

  “Oh, I know some people do,” she tells me. “But it doesn’t look good on you. I think it was in the delivery.”

  “Hey,” Nyx calls from the top of the stairs. “What are you guys doing here?”

  It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him without his skullcap on or any eyeliner, either. His tattoo sleeves are gone, showing his skinny bare-naked arms, and his long hair is pulled up in a twisted knot and secured with a black band.

  “A man bun?” Mags snorts. “Noooot a good look, Charlie Brown.”

  I give her an elbow. “Oh…um, we didn’t, I mean…you didn’t call back and, um, we found a dress from the be
yond…”

  “So, who was that girl?” Mags asks.

  “My sister,” he says, sitting on the very top step.

  “Oh,” I say. “Aren’t your mom and dad home?”

  “They died a long time ago,” he tells me.

  I blink at him. “What? I mean, oh…I didn’t know…sorry,” I stammer. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  He shrugs. “Didn’t come up.”

  “But…it’s kind of a big thing,” I say. “I mean, don’t you think?”

  “I guess,” he says. “I mean, it happened when I was a baby, so I don’t even remember them.”

  “How did they die?” I ask.

  “In a fire,” he says. “The house caught on fire and they saved all the kids but didn’t make it out themselves.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Sorry. I don’t technically have a mom either. I mean, I do, but I don’t. She…she left us last year.” I swallow.

  “Mmm.” He nods.

  “Is that why you’re so interested in Harry Houdini’s story about his mom?” Mags asks him.

  He shrugs again. “Maybe,” he says. “I never thought about that.”

  Nyx’s eyes meet mine then and they don’t let go.

  I guess you could say it counts as another moment…but this one doesn’t feel like a carpet shock at all. Not even close.

  This one hurts…and not in a good way.

  And in that moment, I know he feels the same.

  We share something we shouldn’t share.

  He pulls his eyes away first, and I let out the breath I’ve been holding inside my lungs.

  “I have four older sisters,” he tells us. “And they’ve all taken turns raising me. Jasmine’s the only one left who hasn’t moved down to Denver or Boulder. So it’s just us now. Marigold, Lily, and Poppy are all married and have kids of their own.”

  “Your sisters sound like the garden out back at the Stanley,” I say.

  “Yeah, I guess our mom and dad named them all after flowers.”

  “But not you?” I say.

  “No,” he says. “My mom’s name was Rose, but I’m Charles Junior after my dad.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Where does Nyx come from?”

  He shrugs. “Cool, right?”

  “Oh, totally,” I agree.

  “My mom was into Greek mythology, and nyx means ‘of the night.’ That’s why I picked it. A long time ago I found all these books that belonged to her, and they were all on Greek mythology, and on one page she had underlined the name. So ever since then, I go by Nyx.”

  “I like that,” I say. “I mean, really. It’s like perfect for you. Like so perfect it’s like exactly who you are and everything—”

  Mags gives me a kick.

  “Come on,” he says. “I’ll show you my room.”

  Mags and me follow him upstairs.

  “So, what’s this about a dress?” he asks over his shoulder.

  “We found this ancient dress in the wardrobe in our room,” I say.

  “Wow,” he says. “That’s huge. I mean, for the docuseries and everything. That should be some good evidence.”

  “Yes,” I say. “But we still need a ghost on film to secure the contract and get paid. And I looked through all our pictures and didn’t see one single paranormal image in any of them.”

  “Mmm,” he says, pushing open his bedroom door. “I’ve also been thinking about your theory of phony baloney.”

  “Yeah?” I ask.

  “I was thinking…you may really be onto something.”

  “What do you know?” I ask him.

  “Nothing,” he says. “It’s just a feeling.”

  But I’m not sure I believe him.

  “Does that mean you’ll help us investigate?” I ask. “We need to find a ghost ASAP. My dad’s big break relies on it. Actually, everything does.”

  Nyx opens the door to his room and we all step inside. The walls are black and completely covered in posters.

  “Sick!” Mags calls out. “I love lava lamps but my mom won’t let me get one.”

  She flops down on his bed, watching the pink goo ooze up and back down again in slow motion inside the glass while Nyx fills his backpack.

  “Who is this?” I point to the poster above his bed.

  “Criss Angel,” he tells me. “Another illusionist.”

  “Oh.” I nod. “You actually kind of look like him, you know, with the hair and the skullcap and everything.”

  He smiles. “He’s my second favorite after Harry. He’s a modern-day illusionist.”

  “Look, Karma,” Mags says. “I’ve solved the pink goo mystery. It’s not Jell-O or ghost guts, it’s lava goo from an in-between lava lamp.” She laughs.

  “Very funny,” I say, squinting to read a news clipping taped to the wall.

  It’s something about Harry Houdini escaping from a milk can. Actually, every single inch of Nyx’s walls is covered in a poster or a picture or news clippings about magic.

  “It must have taken you forever to collect so much stuff,” I say.

  He shrugs. “Yeah, I’m hoping one day I can be a famous illusionist in Las Vegas just like Criss Angel.” He zips his backpack and slings it over one shoulder. “Ready?” he asks, securing a black skullcap on his head.

  “Wait,” Mags says, looking up from the lamp. “First, can you please tell her that the pink goo in Poltergeist is not Jell-O.”

  “Tell her what?” Nyx asks.

  “That the pink goo in Poltergeist isn’t Jell-O,” Mags says again.

  “What Jell-O is pink?” Nyx asks.

  “Exactly,” Mags agrees.

  “Jell-O mixed with Cool Whip,” I say.

  Nyx blinks at me.

  “I don’t think it’s that much of a stretch to say the undead like Jell-O,” I say. “I mean, who doesn’t, right?”

  Still blinking at me.

  “It’s not Jell-O,” he says, heading out the door.

  “Well, it’s not ghost guts,” I say, following after him. “Why don’t you tell her it’s not ghost guts.”

  “It’s not ghost guts, either,” he calls over his shoulder.

  “Ha ha,” I say to her. “You think you’re so smart.”

  “So, what is it, then?” Mags asks.

  He stops and turns to face us again.

  “It’s ectoplasm,” he tells us.

  “Ecto what?” Mags asks.

  “Ectoplasm,” he says again.

  “Is that a flavor of Jell-O?” I ask.

  “Not even close,” he says. “It’s supposed to be like the leftover energies of paranormal entities.”

  “Oh, right, like the energies that T. S. Phoenix measures with the Geiger counter,” I say.

  “Exactly.”

  Mags throws her arms up over her head in a V for victory. “Well, that’s closer to guts than Jell-O, so I win,” she announces.

  “Wait…they didn’t talk about ectoplasm in Poltergeist, and that’s supposed to be the blueprint of all things haunted,” I say. “So where did you get it from?”

  He shrugs. “You know…another blueprint.”

  “Uh-huh, which iiiiiiiiis?”

  “The other blueprint of all things haunted.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Yeah, I got that, but what is the other blueprint?” I demand.

  He shrugs again. “Ghostbusters.”

  That night Nyx waits for us in our hotel room for another covert mission while Mags and me eat Chef Raphaël’s French croque monsieurs in the dining hall, like we’re not up to anything fishy.

  After dinner we race back up to the room with some leftover croque monsieurs wrapped in a napkin for Nyx. And if you ask me, croque monsieurs is just fancy talk for ham and cheese Hot Pockets, but I don’t t
ell Chef Raphaël that. It might hurt his feelings if I told him his dinner reminded me of something that comes in a box from the frozen section of the Brooklyn Fare grocery store.

  By ten-fifteen, me, Nyx and Mags are in a line of three, crouched along the windowsill of me and Mags’s hotel room spying on the employee dorm.

  I know I’m supposed to be focused on what’s happening outside the window, but all I can think about right this minute is that Nyx’s arm is touching mine.

  Mags talks all about butterflies in her stomach when Jack the busboy looks her way, but I don’t feel light-winged flutters at all. Mine feel way less fluttery and way more like the feeling I got right before I threw up after riding the Cyclone at Coney Island.

  But, you know…in a good way.

  “This is your plan?” Mags asks. “We could have spied on them ourselves.”

  “Wait, there’s more,” Nyx says, grabbing his backpack. “Here.”

  Instead of his Rid o’ Ghost Kit, this time Nyx brought his Phony Baloney Funny Business Recon Kit.

  PHONY BALONEY FUNNY BUSINESS RECON KIT

  Three pairs of Dora the Explorer binoculars

  “Seriously?” Mags says, holding up her pair. “They’re purple.”

  “They work just the same,” Nyx tells her. “And they were the cheapest ones at Toy Mountain.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “They work just the same.”

  “Still,” Mags complains. “Dora is for babies.”

  “What do you expect? I make minimum wage.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “What do you expect?”

  Mags makes a kissy face at me when Nyx isn’t looking and I give her a smack.

  Then I turn to Nyx and say, “I think it’s…you know, really nice of you to buy these for us and everything. Thanks for doing that….I mean, Dora’s pretty cool. Well, I watched her when I was little and everything, but not anymore. So, yeah…it’s all good.”

  WHAT-IFS

  Are you still talking?

  “Anyway,” I say. “I guess we better get to work.”

  He just nods and aims his Dora the Explorers out the window.

  Then me and Mags do the same.

  We watch and we wait.