by A. R. Wise
“I feel bad that you’re going to have to rent a van to haul us,” said Alma as she walked to the loveseat and sat down.
“I can ride my motorcycle if you want,” said Paul as he sat beside Alma.
“It’s no big deal,” said Stephen. “I went out and bought a ton of equipment to take with us, so it’s my fault.”
“Camera stuff?” asked Paul.
Stephen leaned forward and had a glint of excitement in his eyes. He was a handsome guy, and when he was happy his smile was endearing. “Even better. Rachel would kill me if she knew how much I spent on it, so don’t say anything.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the bedroom door was still closed. “I found a Paranormal Investigation company in Kentucky that was closing up shop, and I bought all of their old equipment.”
“What sort of stuff?” asked Paul.
“All sorts of cool things,” said Stephen. Alma was reminded of two men at Christmas comparing gadgets they’d been given. “An EMF meter, a thermometer, motion sensors, stationary cameras, night vision goggles…”
“Awesome,” said Paul.
Stephen smiled wide and nodded, encouraged by Paul’s appreciation. “They’re bad ass. I’ll let you check them out when we get to…”
The door to the bedroom opened and Stephen sat back in his seat, abruptly ending his excited recounting of his list of new toys.
“Hi,” said Rachel as she came out of the room. “Sorry I’m running late.”
“No problem,” said Alma.
Rachel looked exquisite, even in a simple pair of jeans and a sweater. Alma was suddenly ashamed of herself and looked down at her drab outfit. Rachel and Stephen were a different class of people from herself and Paul, and she felt incredibly out of place when with them.
“You must be Paul,” said Rachel as she came around the love seat to shake Paul’s hand.
“Hi.” Paul looked uncertain if he should stand up to greet her. He shook her hand and smiled, clearly as uncomfortable as Alma.
Rachel turned her attention to Alma and looked like she was greeting an old friend as she reached out to take her hands. “Alma! I can’t tell you how excited I am that you decided to come.” She took Alma’s hands and pulled her off the seat. “I am going to get you whatever you want today. Okay? We’re going to go bananas. Shoes, skirts, jewelry, mannies, peddies, anything you want.”
“You don’t need to do that, honestly,” said Alma.
“Yeah, babe,” said Stephen. “Let’s not spend everything we made the day after we made it.”
Rachel gave her husband a wry, knowing smirk. “This coming from the guy trying to hide four crates of stuff he bought off eBay in our storage locker.”
Stephen blushed and chuckled uncomfortably.
“Yeah,” said Rachel. “I know all about it, bucko. So zip it.” She turned back to Alma. “You and I are going to make a day of it. I’ll take you to my hair place, and they’ll set you up. By the end of the day you’ll feel like a new person.”
“When are we going to leave for Missouri?” asked Alma.
“We can leave tomorrow,” said Rachel. “He’s still got to get the van and I’m sure he’s going to want to play around with all of his new gadgets. We’ve got plenty of time. Right, babe?”
Stephen shrugged, aware that he wasn’t being given much of a choice in the matter. “Whatever you say, beautiful.”
“Paul, do you want to come with us?” asked Rachel, although her tone implied that she assumed he would hate to go along for the girly extravaganza.
“Shopping, hair styling, manicures,” said Paul. “That sounds absolutely,” he paused, “like the worst day ever.”
Rachel and Alma laughed.
“You’re welcome to chill here with me,” said Stephen. “We can test out all the new toys. We’ll fire up the grill and get some beer.”
Paul pointed at Stephen with a gracious grin. “Sounds like a plan.”
Stephen got off the couch and slapped Paul’s knee as he walked past. “Come on, I’ll show you the gear I got.”
Paul got up and Alma looked at him as Rachel was whisking her out the door. They smiled at each other and Paul blew her a kiss. Rachel had already pulled her out the door before Alma could reciprocate.
CHAPTER NINE
New Friends
March 10th, 2012
“I don’t know,” said Alma.
The stylist was a tall, thin gay man that Alma was fairly certain was wearing more foundation than she was. He had impossibly blue eyes, surely the result of designer contacts, and surgically plumped lips. His stereotypical lisp seemed exaggerated, but he knew how to make a girl feel good about herself, and he used his talents expertly.
“Listen, Miss Harper,” he said her name as if he adored the way it sounded coming off his tongue, “I’m here to make you happy. I’ll snip and clip whatever you want me too, but I promise that I know what I’m doing.” He held her long hair in one hand behind her as if putting it into a ponytail and leaned forward so that their cheeks were nearly touching. He looked at her in the mirror of his station. “I don’t charge two hundred a pop for a Super Cuts.”
Alma’s eyes widened. “Two hundred? Are you serious? Rachel,” she turned to look back at the reporter who was sitting across the room from the stylist’s station.
“Don’t say it,” said Rachel with her arms out to her side, fingers splayed as the polish dried. “This is my treat. Too late to back out now.”
“Oh my God,” said Alma. “I’ve never spent more than fifty dollars on a hair cut in my whole life. This is crazy.” She was more amused than exasperated and settled back in her chair, content to let Rachel pamper her if she wanted.
“No, darling,” said the stylist. “This is Laurelies,” he said the studio’s name with flourish. “And you know what they say about Laurelies, don’t you?”
“What’s that?” Alma was starting to appreciate the peek into a lifestyle she’d never enjoyed before.
“Laurelies gets the men between your thighs.”
“Julian.” Rachel chastised the stylist with her tone.
He pointed his silver comb at her. “You know it’s true, you slut.”
“I honestly don’t know why I continue to put up with you,” said Rachel.
Julian snickered and turned Alma’s chair so that she was facing Rachel. “Please, honey, you know you’ve always wanted to be my fag hag. Here, look at your friend and help me convince her that I’m right.” He held Alma’s hair to display the short look that he was hoping to achieve. “Wouldn’t she look amazing with short hair?”
Rachel nodded and said, somewhat unenthusiastically, “Sure, I guess so.”
“You guess so?” asked Julian, frustrated by Rachel’s passionless response. He spun Alma back around and looked at her through the mirror. “Trust me, honey. You’ve got sharp features and a long face. We want to puff you up a little, you skinny thing. We’ll cut the hair here,” he acted as if his fingers were scissors as he demonstrated, “just below the chin line. Then taper it up in back a little, to give you a sort of pixie, badass thing. The front will be longer, and I’ll show you how to thicken it up to give your face a little more oomph.” He thrust his hips along with the onomatopoeia.
Alma looked at herself in the mirror; her tired, same old self. The same face she’d stared at unenthusiastically her whole life. While others often said she was pretty, they nearly as frequently added the aphorism, ‘You should pay more attention to yourself.’ That was, of course, code for, ‘You’d be pretty if you took the time to try and look nice.’
She sighed, closed her eyes, and said, “Okay, do it.”
Julian squealed in delight. “Nurse, get my scalpel before she changes her mind.” He got the scissors from his drawer and wasted no time before making the first cut. He stopped, a foot long section of hair dangling from his hand, and asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind?”
With the huge chunk already gone, there was clearly n
o turning back now. Alma shook her head and gave an exasperated, gleeful yelp. “I can’t believe I’m letting you do this.”
“Miss Harper, my dear, you’re going to be thanking me when this is done. I promise, you’re going to get so much dick you won’t know what to do with it. And if you need a few pointers, I’ll give you my card.” He stopped and looked at her through the mirror. “You are straight, right? You two aren’t dykes, are you?” He motioned back and forth between Rachel and Alma with his scissors.
“Julian, I’m married,” said Rachel as she eavesdropped. “You know that.”
Julian shrugged and then got back to cutting Alma’s hair. “So what? Rocko was married.”
“Shut up, Julian,” said Rocko, the effeminate greeter that was casually flipping through a magazine at the front desk.
“I’m not saying, I’m just saying,” whispered Julian as if telling Alma a naughty secret.
The stylist spent the next half hour trying to convince Alma to let him dye her hair as he finished her cut. He wanted to dye the tips of her longest strands pink, but she kept telling him that her school wouldn’t allow any unusual hairstyles on teachers. This led to a lengthy discussion about Julian’s experience as a gay teen in Kentucky before he moved north. Alma wasn’t homophobic, but she was also ashamed to admit that she didn’t have any close gay friends. It was somewhat intriguing, perhaps even intoxicating, to get a glimpse into the life of someone like Julian. By the time he was done, she would’ve gladly called him a friend. Suddenly, the two hundred dollar cost of the session seemed more than reasonable.
“What do you think?” asked Julian as he handed Alma the hand mirror to inspect her cut. He spun her around and then stepped back in wait, as if hoping for an Oscar nomination.
Her hair hadn’t been that short since she was a child. “I like it.”
Julian applauded and then raised his arms with jubilance. “She likes it. Hallelujah, she likes it! I told you that you would.”
“You were right.” She handed him the mirror and then pushed at either side of the bob which caused her hair to balloon up. “I don’t know how you got it to puff up so much. I’m just worried that I’m going to wake up tomorrow and it’ll just lie there, all flat.”
“Easy, easy secrets,” said Julian. “It’s the magic of science and chemicals and stuff. I’ll get you some shampoo and conditioner to increase volume, and then you’ll use a spritz. You’ll have to get a big round brush like the one I used and then just curl and spritz, curl and spritz. You’ve got nice hair, even if you don’t believe it. You just have to give it a little attention. No more rub, rub,” he put his fingers on his own short hair and mimed a bored hair washing in the shower, “rinse, rinse, off to work. From now on you’re going to give yourself ten extra minutes to look gorgeous. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He put his hand on his hip and cast a wary look at her. “Promise me, Miss Harper. You’re too damn pretty not to know it, and too damn sexy not to show it.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
He gave her a wry, devilish grin. Then he set his hand beside his lips and leaned forward. “It’s true, I do, but this time I mean it. You’re a stunner, my little music teacher. I want you to give those boys in class something to jerk off to.”
“Are you done poisoning my friend?” asked Rachel as she came to stand on the other side of the chair.
“I’m nothing if not the cure.” Julian dropped his scissors into a tall glass cylinder filled with blue liquid. “Where are you two sluts off to next?”
“I’m going to force her to let me do her makeup,” said Rachel. “And then off to buy shoes.”
“Well, aren’t you just the sweet sugar mama?” Julian walked with them to the front counter. “Wake up, Rocko. It’s time to earn your eight dollars an hour.” He pointed at the register and made several jabs at it with his index fingers. “Clickety clack, Rocko.”
Rocko didn’t look amused as he set his magazine down and started to punch in the numbers. Julian led Alma over to a section on the wall that was lined with bottles of hair care products. Alma didn’t recognize any of the labels.
“We’re going to get you this, and this, oh, and this one.” He handed her three bottles.
Alma looked for a price tag, but didn’t see one. “How much are these?”
He shook his head and waved off her question. “On the house, sweetie.”
“Really?”
He wavered his head and then pointed at Rachel. “Well, as long as we call her the ‘House.’”
“I can’t,” said Alma. “She’s already spent too much on me. This is ridiculous.”
Julian stopped her before Alma could put any of the bottles back on the shelf. “You’ll have to take it up with her, darling. It’s already paid for. Besides, don’t let her fool you, Rachel gets the celebrity discount, what with her being a reporter and all.”
“Got your stuff?” asked Rachel as she finished with Rocko and met them at the shelves.
Alma grimaced and looked down bashfully at her armful of products. “Rachel, this is too much. I feel like you’re spending way too much on me.”
“Oh stop it,” said Rachel. “Learn how to let yourself be pampered. It’s my pleasure. Julian, did you know that Alma is going to be on the news soon because she’s such a good teacher?”
“Oh yeah?” asked Julian.
Rachel quickly replied. “Yep. She’d never tell anyone, because she’s too modest, but her school put together a big deal for her; paid to get a new music room and everything, just because they like her so much.”
“Well, well,” said Julian. “I would’ve given anything for just one good teacher growing up. Keep up the good fight, Miss Harper. The world needs a lot of things, but good teachers are at the tippy-top of the list.”
“Thanks,” she said bashfully.
He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a business card that he then slipped into Alma’s back pocket. “And when you want to get freshened up again, give me a ring so I can be sure to give you the celebrity discount.”
* * *
“I can’t believe all this shit,” said Paul as he inspected an EMF meter that had been stored in one of several steel boxes in Stephen’s storage locker.
“I know. It’s like Christmas.” Stephen climbed over a stack of boxes similar to the one that Paul had opened. The storage room was located in the alley of Stephen’s building, and had been converted from the building’s garage to accommodate four similar areas. “Check this out.” He hauled up a monitor and another small black box that had a series of red switches on the front of it. “This is for the motion sensors. You can set it up to watch up to fifteen feeds, and the monitor will automatically switch to any that detect something. You can set it to search for heat or movement.”
“Nice,” said Paul.
Stephen was smiling so wide that it would’ve been hard for him to stop. “Damn straight it’s nice.”
“So, you must be pretty big into this ghost stuff,” said Paul. “How did that happen? Have you always been into it?”
“Yes and no,” said Stephen. “When I was a kid I believed in all of it, but then I turned into a cynical adult, like most of us do. Then, when I was in college, I went for a trip with some friends out to a cabin in Michigan. That night I saw something that totally changed my mind. Ever since then I’ve been a believer.”
Paul set the EMF detector back in its case. “All right then, what did you see? You can’t leave me hanging.”
Stephen avoided the question for a second, and Paul wondered if he’d overstepped his bounds. “It was a little boy playing with a toy train in the kitchen.” Stephen didn’t look at Paul as he recounted the story. “It was in the middle of the night and I was high, and drunk, so at first I thought I was seeing things. I got out of bed and walked through the living room, over a bunch of my friends that were sleeping on the floor, and went in the fridge to get a left-over burrito. I closed the door of
the fridge and there he was, this little kid in a pair of pajamas, on the kitchen floor playing with a train.” Stephen glanced at Paul, but then looked down as he acted out the ghost’s movements. “Just sitting there, not paying any attention to me; just playing with that train. Then, he dematerialized in front of me.”
Paul wasn’t certain how to respond, and turned to humor to lighten the mood. “Dude, you were eating left-over burritos. That’s, like, begging for evil.”
Stephen chuckled, but it was clearly for Paul’s benefit. “I wrote it off as a side effect of too much weed, and maybe bad Mexican food. Then, a few weeks later I found out something about that cabin that made me lose my shit. Turns out, the guy that owned the cabin had a little brother who died there from carbon monoxide poisoning. His dad wanted to sell the place, but his mother refused to let him. She said that her son was still there in spirit, and that she sometimes heard him playing with his toys on the kitchen floor at night.” Stephen shivered abruptly. “Gives me the willies thinking about it.”
“That’s all sort of creepy,” said Paul.
“What about you?” asked Stephen. “Do you believe in it, or do you think it’s all bullshit?”
Paul thumbed his beard just under his lip as he debated how to handle the discussion. “I’d love to believe it, but I’m more of the hardcore skeptic type. I’m not religious or anything either. I’m not trying to discount what you saw or anything, but I have a tough time believing in that sort of thing.”
“I get it,” said Stephen as he climbed back out of the storage unit. “My wife’s the same way, and it works out for us. Helps keep things in perspective. Can I ask you a question, though?”
“Sure, go for it.”
“What do you think about what Alma saw?”
“I don’t know,” said Paul. “Depends on what it is you heard that she saw.”
“Well, I got all of the police reports,” said Stephen. “It pays to have a reporter for a wife. They said that Alma saw a green fog, and men, or some type of creatures, running through the fog. She said they’d been staying in Widowsfield when the rest of the town disappeared, but her father had proof that he’d been staying at a cabin in Forsythe. The police couldn’t find evidence of anything at either locations, and they held her father for as long as they could, but couldn’t come up with a case to pin on him for the disappearance of Alma’s brother.”