Ghosts on Tour: Wylie Westerhouse Book 1

by Nathan Roden

  “Fear the broom! Fear the broom!” Nora said as the girls continued to laugh uncontrollably.

  “WOOF!”

  The girls fell silent.

  “Wh… w…what was that?” Charlotte whispered, grabbing Nora’s hand again.

  Nora pointed.

  “It came from inside that vehicle.”

  “Let’s go back inside,” Charlotte said, pulling on Nora’s hand.

  Nora continued to stare at the car.

  “Nora?” Charlotte said.

  “Let’s just take a peek,” Nora said, “I’m tired of you saying that I’m afraid of everything.”

  “Noooo! I’m scared. Nora, this is a strange place, and we don’t know what’s in there, and Father will be angry, and—“

  Nora stepped toward the car. Charlotte stayed behind her, clinging to the back of her dress.

  “We’re ghosts, Charlotte. What more can happen to us? We’ll just have a little peek.”

  The girls crept to the side of the car. Nora put her hands to the side of her face and leaned toward the side window.

  “WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!”

  The hairy, white, snarling head of a dog hit the window next to Nora’s face.

  Nora and Charlotte jumped and screamed. They dropped each other’s hand and turned to run back to the castle. They heard the car door open.

  Nora was running as fast as she could when she turned to see where Charlotte was.

  Charlotte was not running. Charlotte was standing still and facing the young man who had gotten out of the vehicle.

  Nora took a step toward her sister. Then another.

  “Charlotte!” she called in a whispered scream.

  “Charlotte!” she called again. Nora continued to inch her way back toward her sister. She stopped a few feet away and looked at the young man. It was the same young man that had stayed the night in the turret room. The young man who read from her diary. He stood in front of his vehicle holding a white, hairy dog to his chest. He cocked his head and appeared to be listening. Nora couldn’t move.

  Charlotte was also frozen in place in front of the young man.

  Nora watched as the young man, shushing and stroking the head of his dog, lowered himself to one knee. He was deep in concentration. He leaned forward.

  Impossible as it was, he seemed to be looking directly into Charlotte’s eyes. He whispered,

  “Hello?”

  Nora crept forward and took Charlotte’s hand. She was turning to run but stopped when she heard the young man whisper,

  “Nora?”

  Fifteen

  Wylie Westerhouse

  Branson, Missouri

  I carried Toby back to the car and then looked around one more time before climbing in myself. Toby was no longer sleepy. I scratched him behind the ear and held him by his chin.

  “If I’m crazy then so are you, Boy. What were you barking at, huh? There was somebody—or something, there. Right?”

  I had to say that out loud, even if it was to my dog.

  In the interest of my mental health, this would have been a real good time for Toby to be able to agree with me.

  I drove home and made a batch of popcorn. I put on a Christopher Lee vampire movie—one of my favorites, with Peter Cushing, co-starring. That should be against the law, to have that much creepy in one place at the same time. If Christopher Lee, Peter Cushing, Boris Karloff, and Vincent Price ever got together in the same room, I think the world would have melted.

  Toby knows that the scent and sound of popcorn means that it’s movie night. He has a special Popcorn Dance that he does while it’s popping. Okay, he runs around in circles and barks. Popcorn makes him happy. It makes me happy, too. My dance is just shifting my weight between my feet while I lean against the counter and watch the numbers count down on the microwave.

  Toby followed me into the living room. He used to beat me onto the sofa on movie night, but lately, he sits down beside it until I sit down and call him up.

  I couldn’t figure out why Toby started being so weird around the sofa. I’ve never yelled at him for jumping on it. I keep a slipcover on it, so I don’t worry about dirt or his hair. But every time Toby jumps onto the sofa, he moves all the way to the left end. He looks uncomfortable the whole time, and he lies down with part of his backside hanging off. Oh, well. He doesn’t break my stuff or chase invisible squirrels, so I guess he’s entitled to a quirk or two.

  I had several hours to kill because I had already slept. I needed a distraction from thinking about tomorrow. Tomorrow morning I would call my mother and have to explain why I needed to come to Boston and find a job. I wasn’t looking forward to booking Toby a stay at the kennel, either. I’ve only had to do that once and I hated the look on his face. Maybe it was just the look I imagined him having on his face when I left him. Whatever. I don’t want to do it again. But a week from now I’ll have to.

  I got up early the next morning and made a strong pot of coffee. When Toby and I came back in from the back yard, I watched a silver Aston Martin roll to a stop in front of the house. I met Q at the door. Toby barked at him once, but Q was all over him immediately and they were fast friends within a few seconds.

  “Are you going to the store this morning?” Q asked.

  “Yeah, we have a few days left. The stock will be down to a garage sale level pretty soon. We get several offers a day from people that want to buy everything that’s left for one price. Porter isn’t going to do that. He doesn’t have to,” I said.

  “Have you had any luck with the clubs?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “I’m sorry,” Q said, “Why not just take a few weeks to rest up and form a new plan of attack? You know. Recharge the old batteries and then take another run at it,” he said.

  “I do have a new plan. I’m going to call my mother and let her know that I’ll be coming home to find a job. When that happens, I’ll load up and move back home,” I said.

  Q exhaled and bit his lower lip. He was concentrating by staring at my front door knob.

  “Is that really what you want to do?” he asked.

  I snorted.

  “Of course not. But I have experience with doing things that I don’t want to do. Lots of people do.”

  Q looked at me for a second, but he couldn’t maintain eye contact. He looked at the floor and shuffled one foot. He looked like a six-year-old in trouble.

  “You don’t have to move home,” he said.

  “Yes, I do, Quentin. I’m not giving up Toby, and the only way I can keep him is to have a yard. Toby was…he was my brother’s dog. I worked at two jobs to make this happen and now I’ve lost them both in the same week. I’ve been making minimum payments to my attorney and I still owe him a lot of money. I’m not throwing in the towel, but I have to be practical. Right now, I have to have some help, and I don’t have any time to waste. That’s why I’m moving back to Boston.”

  “You don’t have to worry about the lawyer,” Q said, without looking up.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “And why not?”

  “You don’t owe the lawyer any money.”

  “Twenty-four thousand dollars and change is what I owe him, as of—“

  “No.”

  Q looked up at me.

  “You don’t owe the lawyer any money. Zero,” he said.

  I blinked a few times. Okay, a bunch of times.

  “What did you do?” I whispered. “You didn’t—“

  “You can sue me, I guess,” Q said, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m not sure what the charge would be; ‘Malicious unsolicited financial intervention’, maybe. That might be your best idea, now that I think of it. Your lawyer would be more than happy to take your case, you being a client in good standing with a zero balance. I’ll plead guilty, of course, and suggest to the judge that he punish me with a stiff financial penalty. Good thinking, Wylie.”

  “How did you find him? Did you call my mother? What is she going to think—?“
/>   “I did not talk to anyone else. I wouldn’t do that to you. You’re my friend.”

  “Well, thank you, I guess,” I said. “That doesn’t change my situation, though. I still have no way to pay—”

  “You can afford a hundred dollars a month, can’t you?” Q asked.

  “I have one more check coming—twelve days from now. After that, I won’t be able to afford a soda. A hundred dollars a month for what?”

  “For rent,” he said.

  “It’s too early in the morning to be drinking, Q. What are you talking about?”

  “The rent on this house is one hundred dollars a month,” he said.

  “Maybe you should come in and sit down, Q. What are you…wait. No, you didn’t—“

  “The investment group was reasonable. None of their members live in this state. They had to look in their records to know that they even owned this property. I offered them an excellent return on their investment. You know, I might look into this real estate stuff. I guess it helps if you have more money than sense.”

  Q followed me into the house because now I was the one that needed to sit down.

  “Look, Q. I appreciate all this. Really. But it’s…it’s all wrong. It feels wrong. You know what I mean?”

  “No, I don’t know what you mean,” Q said. “You’ve had some bad breaks and you don’t want to leave. The only reason you think you have to leave is a shortage of money. I don’t want you to leave and I have lots of money. It isn’t complicated.”

  I stood up.

  “You can’t have it both ways, Q. Remember lecturing me about the kind of music I’m doing—the ‘passion’ speech? Well, that’s exactly why your plan doesn’t work. I’m trying to do what only a handful of people get to do with their lives—make a living off of music. But I can’t fool anyone. I didn’t fool you, did I? That’s why I can’t let you carry me. Nate is probably going to try to carry me, too. I can’t do that. I cracked under the pressure once already and handed over the keys to my life. In almost no time at all— I just about lost everything. Do you know how hard it was just to get out of bed after that?

  “I am not quitting, Q. But I have to do this my way. By myself. If I can’t make it happen on my own, on my own terms, I’ll never—“

  I fell back into the chair.

  “I’ll never be anything but a dancing monkey,” I said.

  Q’s cell phone rang. He looked at the screen and silenced the ringer.

  Q stepped toward me and held out his hand.

  “I can’t argue with that. I hate to see you go, but I’ll be watching for your return to the stage. I hope that it brings you back to Branson.”

  “Thanks. Thanks for everything, Q.”

  Q pointed at his phone.

  “You mind if I—? That was Brian McAllen,” he said.

  “No, no. Go ahead,” I said.

  “Quentin Lynch—“ Q began and then stopped to listen.

  “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yes. No, no. Keep everyone there. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Q said, with worry on his face.

  “Crap,” he said.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Porter Plimpton and half the city council are at the site,” he said, making his way to the door.

  “What for?” I asked.

  Q turned around as he opened the door.

  “Threatening to stop the construction.”

  “Branson Music. This is Johnny B speaking. How may I affect your day?”

  “Hey, Johnny. It’s Wylie.”

  “Yo, Wyles. How’s the poison gas—you coming in today? We’re a little short-handed.”

  “I was planning to come in around ten-thirty. We have some other no-shows, or what?”

  “Well, Jenna and Zoe started their new jobs at Electric City today, so right now it’s just me and Tammy Fay. That is not my idea of a good time. I’m even missing Porter. I can’t believe he’s not here watching the cash register.”

  “Oh, he’s up to more of his evil business right now. That’s where I’m off to,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?” Johnny B asked.

  “Porter and his buddies from the City are trying to mess with Quentin Lynchburg’s castle,” I said.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Johnny B said. “He’s bringing something cool like that to town and they’re messing with him?”

  “I don’t get it, either. I’m going to stop by there and check it out before I come in. I’ll be there by eleven for sure if you want to take off,” I said.

  “Nah, I don’t have anything better to do today. This is easy money. If you promise to come in and give Tammy Fay somebody else to look down her nose at, I’ll see you at eleven.”

  I parked down the hill from the castle construction site and walked toward the sound of loud voices. I walked up between two pickup trucks and stood next to a dozen construction workers. Brian McAllen stood next to Quentin. Brian’s face and ears were red and he was yelling at an assembly of eight men in business suits.

  “Don’t go quoting me your zoning laws and deed restrictions, Mr. Fancy Pants.”

  Quentin stepped toward Brian McAllen. Thomas Killeen, McAllen’s assistant foreman, grabbed Quentin’s sleeve.

  “He yells a lot, Mr. Lynchburg,” Thomas whispered into Q’s ear. “But he’s never hit anyone on a job site, as far as I know. He just gets excited.”

  Q nodded and relaxed—a little.

  “I spent hours on the phone with your city people. I’ve got all the permits and copies of everything required. They’re right there on the table,” McAllen said. He pointed at the drafting table that stood just inside the sliding glass doors of the construction trailer.

  All eight men looked at the table.

  “May we?” one of the men asked.

  “By all means,” Quentin said, motioning toward the open door.

  “Help yourself,” Brian McAllen said. “But be quick about it—we’re losing daylight with this nonsense.”

  The men walked into the trailer while keeping watch on the hotheaded foreman.

  Porter Plimpton followed the men. He whispered in their ears. After a few minutes, the men stepped outside of the trailer. They stood between the trailer and their parked cars.

  The spokesman for the group cleared his throat.

  “Gentlemen, my name is Frank Winthrop, City Manager. We believe that we have found the likely explanation for this misunderstanding. The permits that Mr. McAllen acquired, and the zoning restrictions that your construction proposes to violate, are in reference to a commercial property. The owner of this particular subdivision—,“ Winthrop shuffled through some papers, “T. Bartlett Homes, Inc. of Winnipeg, Manitoba, in conjunction with the City of Branson, has specified all of the lots south of the golf course to be zoned for hotel, restaurant, and retail business construction. Single-family residences are not prohibited, but residential properties must adhere to their own set of restrictions. I’m afraid that your building will not be within these parameters, particularly with the addition of that enormous—what do you call that enormous round thing?”

  “The turret tower,” Quentin said.

  “What are you sayin’, man?” Brian McAllen asked. “This is a commercial building—it has been for years. The family that owned it operated tours in it until an act of God put them out of business. And now that it’s in Branson, where tourists come by the thousands, what is all the bloody stink about?”

  “Brian—“ Q said.

  Frank Winthrop looked back and forth at the two men.

  “We are under the impression that Mr. Lynchburg intends to make this his personal residence,” Winthrop said.

  Brian McAllen’s jaw dropped. He turned to Quentin.

  “Is this true, Mr. Lynchburg? You never mentioned that, lad.”

  “I didn’t know that it made a difference, Brian.”

  Brian McAllen covered his face with his hands.

  “Holy Mother of—“ he said, and walked away from the
group. Thomas Killeen hurried to his boss’s side.

  Quentin Lynchburg stared into space. He looked lost for a second or two but then his face changed.

  “Come back, Brian. Join us,” Quentin said. Brian and Thomas returned.

  “So, Mr. Winthrop,” Q said, “All I have to do to be in compliance is to declare the castle a commercial enterprise?”

  “Well, it’s not really that simple—“ Winthrop stammered. The other seven men shuffled their feet and mumbled. Porter Plimpton was worried, now.

  “Why not?” Q asked.

  “Why not…what?” Winthrop said. His face turned red as. He looked embarrassed and confused.

  “Why is it not that simple? You tell me I’m not allowed to live in the castle. Fine. I won’t live in the castle. So I make the castle a commercial retail, revenue-generating tourist attraction. What about that?”

  Brian McAllen slapped Q on the back and almost knocked him down. He laughed out loud and soon Thomas Killeen and the rest of the construction crew joined him.

  “Now you’re talking, Mr. Lynchburg. What do you have to say now, Mr. Winthrop?” McAllen bellowed. “Come on, men! We got a castle to build!”

  Seven defeated members of the City Council of Branson Missouri slumped to their cars. Porter Plimpton held his head high and haughty as he stormed toward his car. He squealed the tires and left a rooster tail of gravel.

  I looked on as Brian McAllen’s crew held a ten-minute long celebration. They had dodged a bullet in the form of the City Council, but it had cost Quentin the right to live in the home he paid millions of dollars for.

  Q was accepting the last of the congratulations when he spotted me.

  “Well, that was exciting, wasn’t it?” he said.

  “Yeah. I’m sorry, Q. I’m sure you had some awesome plans for the place,” I said.