Witches and Ghosts Supernatural Mysteries

by Angela Pepper

  I'm quiet now, not even making a ripple, but I must have made a noise when I hit the water.

  On the other side of the fence, Detective Wrong is cursing the thorns in a rose bush.

  Ahead of me, inside the warmly-lit house, a man and a woman are discussing the age of the wine they're drinking, and whether or not the neighbor's golden retriever has gotten into their pool again.

  One of the doors is open, and I can hear them as easily as my own thoughts.

  “I swear I heard a splash,” the lady says.

  He says, sounding annoyed, “If you weren't constantly running that damn garbage disposal, you might have heard me say this wine is not from the winery we toured in August.”

  “Who cares, it's open now, let's drink it.” Glasses clink and they laugh merrily. “If the dog drowns, are we liable?” she asks.

  “If you're so concerned, why don't you go out and check.”

  “You go,” the woman says. “Be my big, strong hero.”

  “Let the dog have his fun,” the man says. “If that hairy mongrel is in there, I don't want to witness it with my own eyes. I won't be able to swim without imagining all that filthy dog hair getting in my mouth.”

  “Dog hair's not filthy.”

  “Great, I'll make you a dog hair sandwich tomorrow.”

  “Ha ha,” she says, and then there's the sound of wine glasses being clinked together again.

  In the dimness, I look around at these strangers' home. The pool is neither rectangular nor circular, but an undulating kidney shape, like one of the paisley things on a dress Austin wears. The tiles lining the pool have patterns on them, flowers or something. Looks expensive—not cheap blue plastic lining, that's for sure.

  The house is what people call modern, with big expanses of glass walls instead of mere windows, and visible inside the kitchen are those shiny appliances that cost more than Gran's new-to-her car.

  Now that I'm not worried about getting shot in the back, I'm saddened my new running shoes are getting ruined in this chlorinated water, and it's going to cost a fortune to replace them. Doghair-sandwich-couple probably spent the equivalent of my shoes on their bottle of wine alone.

  People say money can't buy happiness, but I'd sure like to disprove the expression.

  The night is quiet again.

  Satisfied that Detective Wrong has moved on, I climb out of the pool, my soaking sweatpants and shirt weighing about five pounds more than usual. I use the gate to let myself out of the backyard and I start making my way home, my shoes squirting and squelching noisily.

  To avoid pistol-packing police, I stick to the unlit alleys all the way to my house, going in the back gate and up to the kitchen door instead of the front door. The light is on, and Gran and Rudy are inside the kitchen.

  I stop my hand just before it reaches the door, because I hear my name. They're talking about me.

  Hunching down, for the third time today, I listen in on a private conversation.

  “You can't drug someone without their knowledge,” Gran is saying.

  “It's for his own good,” Rudy says.

  “I'm putting a stop to it,” she says.

  “But you've seen him. He's got his vim back.”

  “I'm not discussing this. We don't mess around with nature.”

  Rudy shuts up, as well he should. When Gran says a discussion is over, it's over. I still miss that miniature frisbee I used to throw around inside the house, but I did learn my lesson.

  I wait about a minute before I try the door handle. It's locked, so I knock, and Gran lets me in. Rudy's not in the kitchen with her now, which doubles my joy about being let into the warm house.

  “You're soaking wet!”

  “Freak thunderstorm, very isolated.”

  She crosses her arms. She's not buying my story for a minute—and she shouldn't, because I reek of chlorine—but she must be tired, because she lets it go.

  “Thank you for the chicken, it was so yummy in my tummy.” I offer her a hug, and despite my dripping-wet shirt, she accepts, rocking me from side to side.

  “My growing boy.” She smooches me repeatedly on my cheek.

  I wonder what she and Rudy were talking about. Three cartons of the juice I've been drinking at breakfast are upended in the sink. Was Rudy giving me drugs? Steroids?

  “What were you and Rudy arguing about?” I ask. “I heard you before I came in the door.”

  “Oh, it's silly,” she says. “His friend is selling these ridiculous vitamins. Probably a pyramid scheme. He wanted us to buy a year's supply.”

  “Was it in the juice?” I point to the cartons.

  “No, those just went rancid, so I had to throw them out.”

  I don't know why she's lying to me, but I figure if she can let me off for a few fibs, I can do the same for her.

  “I'm hungry from my run, I might stay up and have some crackers or something.” The crock pot has been washed and put away, and I imagine the leftover coq au vin is in the refrigerator, in a neatly labeled-container.

  She kisses me on my forehead. “Turn out the light. And don't worry about tending Mibs, I already gave him his insulin.”

  Mibs, who is sitting on one of the chairs at the table, meows at the mention of his name.

  After Gran leaves the kitchen, I get out the crackers and some sliced ham. I pull out a big slice for me and a little slice for Mibs.

  With a very low voice, I ask Mibs, “Do you think I'd be a good detective?”

  Mibs responds by mugging me for the ham in my hands.

  “I'm useless,” I confess to the very-attentive cat. A ghost has asked me to solve his murder, but I'm not getting anywhere. Newt's murder might be like one of those cold cases from TV, where the case goes on for years and years, until finally there's a break. I should try sending Newt a message that I'm not up for being a detective, and he should seek a more conventional solution, like hiring a professional. Not that he has any money where he is. Hey, did Newt only hire me because I'm free?

  As I tidy up my crumbs, I spot the corner of the bee book in the garbage and pull it out. Even after a quick wipe-down with some paper towel, it still smells like chicken bones and coffee. I spray the exterior with some kitchen cleaner and rub harder, which reveals an image on the cover, under aged dirt. Fittingly enough, it's a bee, albeit an awfully familiar one. I look at the ring on my finger.

  Dammit, I shouldn't be wearing the ring around where people can see it. I'm lucky Gran didn't notice with her keen eyes.

  Scrubbing a little harder on the cover, I reveal a bee similar to the one on my ring. Or is it? Bee designs don't vary much. You've got the little head ball and the two other segments of the body, plus the wings. The illustration on the book cover and the design on my ring are both old-fashioned-looking bees, not like modern Japanese anime cartoon bees with big giant eyes and mammal-like eyelids.

  My damp clothes are moist and heavy like a dirty diaper. I want these uncomfortable things off me now, and even though it's still early, crawling into my bed is an appealing thought.

  Rudy and Gran are watching something on television in the living room, laughing over the super-loud commercials. I've showed them a million times how to use the machine so they can fast-forward through the ads, but they seem to enjoy the ads as much as their shows.

  Shaking my head at the stubbornness of older people, I toss the paper towels in the garbage can, on top of some papers.

  Gran didn't throw these papers in here, because she's adamant about recycling, so these must be Rudy's. I retrieve them, out of curiosity.

  Most of them are boring junk mail, more junk mail, and a boring bank statement. Hmm, bank statements are only boring when they're mine. Let's see here.

  Now, wait just a minute, how many zeros are on this deposit for Rudy's checking account? Wow, that is a lot of money for a real estate agent. I know he dabbles in a few small businesses, mostly multi-level-marketing crap where they sucker you for the demo kit and you never make your cash back.
This money must have come from his job, but there's no way that deposit is from a single commission, or even a month's worth.

  Rudy! Buddy! You're rich! I like you a teensy bit more now. How long until we get a kidney-shaped swimming pool?

  I step around the corner to peer at them both, where they're seated and watching television. Rudy's got his arm around Gran and they don't even notice me. They look so happy together I get a squishy feeling in my guts.

  Back in the kitchen, I peruse the rest of his bank statement. His other transactions are regular enough: groceries, gas station, and Wild Western Town for his cowboy clothes, of course.

  I fold the papers in half and bury them in our box of recycling, under some other mail.

  So much for my suspicions about my pal Rudy being broke. Things sure can change quickly.

  * * *

  After I've gotten out of my wet clothes—what is it about wet clothes that makes them so desperate to stay on your body?—I climb into bed with my smelly old book about magic bees. My bed is wonderfully crisp and luxurious tonight. Gran must have changed the sheets today. She's a big believer in the power of tidy rooms and fresh sheets to restore the spirit.

  I try turning on my lamp, but the bulb's burned out. Groaning about having to get up, I get a new one from the hall closet.

  Finally, I'm all set up and I try starting the book over again from page one, but pretty soon I'm banging my hands on my forehead in frustration.

  The stupid text is a jumble of words and doesn't mean anything to me. There are some dire warnings and references to the devastation of war, but I don't understand how that relates to bees.

  I flip through the pages, stopping when I hit an interesting illustration. Well, hello there! A naked woman is eating handfuls of something, and servants are bringing her bowls filled with more of the globe-shaped items. I look further down, as I've been enjoying the naked top half, though I should have stopped there. The woman appears to be, uh, giving birth to an army of bees. Yep. They're coming out of her you-know-what.

  I slam the book shut in horror.

  After a moment of reflection, I decide the illustration must be a metaphor. Sure, let's assume it's not a literal depiction, but as convoluted and skewed as the accompanying text.

  I flip the book open and find another drawing, an image of a hot air balloon, made transparent so you can see it's filled with bees. The text on this page is hard to understand, and the typeface is a curly, ornate typeface, which makes it even more irritating to read, but I'll be damned if I'm not picking up some information from this infernal book.

  This page reads:

  The queen is a harlot, a fragment of the old world, with old values for to be compared to the morality of the time from which she sprang would be the fool's thought and imposition of a time not related. Her bees bid not, serve not, answer not, care not, for among them is the hive mind of the man who would be king of all that is destroyed in the war of living and dead.

  Reading this stuff makes my scalp itch like crazy. I read on, unsure if I'm reading fiction or non-fiction. If this is a made-up story, it doesn't have much of a plot.

  My head droops under its weight, as do my eyelids. The ornate words blur in front of me. My nose gets closer to the pages, which reek of used books, incense, and garbage.

  I roll onto my stomach and bunch my two pillows under my chest. I prop my forehead up with one hand to rest my neck and my eyes begin to blur. I close one heavy eyelid and read further with just the one eye, forcing my vision to not be blurry, and I'm definitely not falling asleep ... this is totally working ...

  * * *

  This dream is incredibly vivid. I can actually feel the blanket of bees all over me, making me toasty warm. A bee blanket is even more luxurious than freshly-laundered sheets.

  This dream feels so much like reality that I reach down and try pinching my arm, to see if I can. The bees hum and move away from my hand.

  Hey now. I felt that pinch.

  I don't think this is a dream at all, unless you feel pinches in dreams. But of course you can feel pinches in dreams—you feel everything.

  I'm inside a beehive?

  No, I can't be inside a beehive. I'm big, way bigger than a beehive. Unless I've shrunk. Oh no, I've shrunk! This is a nightmare. What can rescue me? A unicorn. I focus on conjuring up a unicorn, but nothing happens.

  I squint in the darkness, expecting to see the waxy honeycombs of the inside of a bee hive, but instead I spot a silver claw. And a silver, glinting shovel the size of my hand. Gardening tools.

  The dimensions of my enclosure come into focus. I'm inside a garden shed, on my back, covered in a writhing blanket of humming bees.

  A person in this situation shouldn't panic. He should sit up very slowly, so as not to upset the bees and trigger their swarming instinct.

  This is what I do, carefully, though my movement does give the bees some concern. They aren't finished feeding me, they say. They gave me their nourishing bee bread, packed balls of pollen held together with honey, but they haven't gotten to the royal jelly.

  Royal jelly? How do I know this?

  Oh, I'm reading their minds. Of course I am.

  I carefully reach over to my pinkie finger and slide off my precious little ring. My mind goes quiet, and I'm alone, lonely. Slide the ring on. Friendship. Family. Togetherness.

  Ring off: sad.

  Ring on: happy.

  All the bees want to do is love me and feed me. Why won't I let them?

  In answer, I open my mouth as I lie back down. They drop the sweets onto my tongue. They're good, like candy. Trick-or-treat. I feel sleepy again, and I'm fading away. We are resting now. We are feeding and getting stronger. We are together. We are never alone. We are the hive. We are eternal.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I'm nearly awake, but my eyes are still closed. I'm in my bed, face-down, and I feel good. REALLY good.

  Lights flash behind my eyelids: blue, red, green, yellow, white. My whole body curls up inside itself with pleasure.

  I wake up with my face in a puddle of drool and my hand down the front of my boxers. I don't mean to be indelicate, but apparently I was having a very exciting dream. That's what I get for looking at strange, naked bee ladies right before I go to sleep.

  I retrieve the book from where it's wedged under my pillow and slip it under my mattress.

  * * *

  I feel sheepish all morning as I get ready for school.

  At breakfast, Gran looks me over. “What's with the suit?”

  I look down at the Charlie Chaplin suit, my Halloween costume. I've paired it with a bright blue shirt, though I don't remember making that sartorial decision.

  “Lookin' sharp,” Rudy says, handing me a plate of bacon. “All you need is a good belt buckle to bring the look together. Give you some pizazz.”

  I don't know if I'm being swayed by his sudden generosity with pork products, or the knowledge of how much dough he's got in his bank account, but I'm starting to like Rudy.

  “I could wear this suit to your wedding,” I say.

  Gran and Rudy exchange a look.

  “What?” I ask, worried maybe the wedding's off, along with my plans for a kidney-shaped swimming pool paid for by Mr. Money Bags, Rudy.

  “We're actually moving the wedding up to this weekend,” Gran says.

  I clap my hands together. “Awesome!”

  She seems surprised by my enthusiasm.

  “Hey, there's my man.” Rudy grabs my arm and jostles it, which doubles our total amount of body contact to date. I give him a high-five for his efforts.

  “Would you wear a belt buckle if I bought you one?” he asks.

  “I think I would! But just with jeans, not with this.”

  “A fine buckle draws the ladies' eyes to your package!” he says.

  “Rudy!” Gran says chidingly.

  He leans back and adjusts his shiny buckle, this one bearing the image of a tractor. “It's true,” he says. “Works li
ke magic.”

  For some reason, I find this hysterical and can't stop laughing for quite some time. Gran's disapproving looks at both of us only fan the flames.

  * * *

  At school, I'm mentally spending my future generous allowances from Rudy when I'm slammed into my locker by six feet of human.

  I turn and tackle, sending us both to the ground.

  “Fight, fight!” someone yells, and I wonder who's fighting. Me. I guess they mean me.

  Shad Miller, his arm twisted behind his back, is laughing underneath me. “Easy, karate kid! I just wanted my hacky sack back!”

  I look around, confused, and he springs out from under me, along with my legs, and now I'm on my back. More kids gather around, and I reach for someone's hand to help me up, but the hand pulls away. Now Shad's on top of me, pinning me down, his mouth way too close to my face. “One one-thousand,” he says with cereal-breath.

  I'd rather not be here, on the dirty floor, so I sit up. Shad seems surprised by this. I grab him, turn him around, and secure him so he can't breathe on my face.

  Now that Shad's no longer moving, the crowd of fight enthusiasts disperses, dissatisfied there will be no bloodied noses or suspensions.

  “You win,” Shad wheezes. “Let me go.”

  I apologize and take my knee off Shad's back. How my knee got there is a mystery, as that wasn't a move we learned at karate. Like I said before, I suspect our instructor is a pacifist. We do a lot of what seems suspiciously like Tai Chi in my Tuesday evening karate class.

  Shad's eyes are wide-open, his pale, freckled cheeks are flushed, and his red hair is sticking up as though somebody rubbed it with a static-charged balloon. “How are you not on the wrestling team?” he asks.

  I shrug off his suggestion, not wanting to embarrass myself by admitting the grunting during wrestling alarms me—not hearing it, but imagining myself grunting in front of an audience.

  I stand and pat myself down, relaxing only when I find my precious ring safely inside my jacket pocket, along with Shad's hacky sack.

  “We were going to exchange some information,” I say. “What were you doing downtown on Halloween, and did you see anyone at the pawn shop?”