Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season

by Charity Tahmaseb

  “I have no idea.”

  * * *

  My arm aches from the tetanus shot. This small annoyance bothers me more than the swath of bandages across each thigh, and the fact I can’t tug any of my jeans up and over the bandages. I’m reduced to wearing a short, flirty skater skirt. This skirt, which is really too short for most activities, might be the only thing I can wear for the next week.

  This does not bode well for ghost hunting.

  I sit on the couch in our office, tray propped up and over my thighs—a bridge over my bandages. In a wise move, Malcolm brings in a cold lunch—sandwiches and icy lemonade from the deli next door. I am not in the mood for coffee.

  “You okay?” he says. Actually, he has said this about once every fifteen minutes. Until now, I haven’t felt like answering.

  “I’ve never blistered like this before,” I tell him.

  “The doctor said it wouldn’t scar—”

  “That’s not what bugs me.”

  Oh, I have scars, many of which are on view, thanks to the skater skirt. I look at them more as badges of honor, a legacy of working with my grandmother. “I was totally unprepared for what happened.”

  “We both were.”

  “But I shouldn’t have been.”

  This still eats at me, hours later, has led to endless Internet searches, and has left me so frustrated, I’m afraid most of my words will emerge with more than a growl—I will bite, too.

  “It’s different for me,” I add. The words hang in the air, and I realize just how arrogant they sound, and how it’s too late to take them back.

  He studies his sandwich, a Black Forest ham with baby Swiss, on rye, his favorite. Instead of eating, he sets it on his paper plate.

  “You know what I think?” he says.

  “What?”

  “You’re right, sort of. It is different for you, but not because you think you went in unprepared. No one is more prepared than you are.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “I think it was ... a trap, an ambush. Whatever that thing was, it targeted you.”

  “You think that?”

  Malcolm tips his head; it’s a slow, thoughtful sort of movement. He rubs his jaw. “I don’t have proof, but I sense it. There was nothing when I ran back inside. I couldn’t even smell the spilt coffee.”

  “You were in a hurry—”

  “And I had to pick up all the cups and the thermoses. You know the smell of cold coffee.”

  Do I ever. An involuntary shudder runs through me and has Malcolm securing a fleece throw and wrapping it around my shoulders. I don’t refuse.

  “The place should’ve reeked.” He sits on the coffee table so his gaze strikes me dead on. “I’m telling you, there was nothing, no odor, and it’s not like that place smells of anything except stale air.”

  “The fans?” I suggest. “They were going full blast.”

  Instead of responding, he pulls the field kit out from under the table. Inside, the contents rattle. He lifts a silver thermos from the pack, the one we use for the extra sweet, extra light concoction. The sides should be damp and sticky. No matter how carefully we pour, this is our messiest thermos. The silver gleams. Malcolm unscrews the cap. He waves it under his nose, then mine.

  Nothing.

  “That’s weird,” I say, “but it doesn’t prove this thing is after me.”

  He directs a pointed look at my thighs. Okay, maybe it does.

  “Vendetta,” he says.

  “What?”

  “The word is stuck in my mind. Vendetta. Only I can’t figure out why. Who, or what, would have a vendetta against you? You’ve never done more than catch and release, have you?”

  I shake my head. No, that was always our strict policy. Ghosts can be nasty, it’s true, especially those who resent their afterlife. For the stronger, meaner ones, the solution is nothing more than driving them farther out, and around in circles, until they lose all sense of direction. Sure, once released, they might make their way back. More likely, they’ll find a new spot to haunt.

  “What about your grandmother?”

  “Not that I know of, and I learned everything from her.”

  He props his elbows on his knees and plants his chin on his fists. His dark eyes are fringed with black lashes. This close, the effect is breathtaking. No wonder the women who work the deli counter toss in dessert for free.

  “Maybe we need to expand our search,” he says. “Maybe this thing isn’t a ghost. I told you about the old Victorian I lived in back in college.”

  It’s where he picked up his ghost catching ability—or maybe it picked him.

  “People thought it was funny I could catch ghosts and put them in my samovar, but I always thought it was kind of sad.”

  By people, he means his fraternity brothers, and he had amassed quite a collection by the time I met him. I had to teach him how to release ghosts, although he still doesn’t have the knack. Half the time, they double back and smack him in the head.

  “But there was other stuff going on. Not ghosts, but ...” He pauses, presses a finger against his lip. “Definitely supernatural. I never knew what they were, only that I couldn’t catch them.”

  I don’t like the idea of things that can’t be caught. I think of that white fluttering—of bed sheets and bridal veils. Merely a ruse, then? Something to grab our attention—or the attention of a potential client? If so, it worked.

  “Maybe you should talk to Doug,” I say. “Give him an update.”

  Malcolm groans. “If I do that, he’s going to blather it all over the internet.”

  “One, there’s already so much ghost crap all over the internet, what’s a little more? Two?” I catch Malcolm’s eye. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

  * * *

  I don’t know what it is about the internet and ghosts, but it has a way of bringing out the frauds. Or maybe that’s the internet in general. Long ago, I stopped trying to explain properties of light to potential clients. It simply doesn’t matter. If someone wants to see a ghost in a spot in a photograph, they will see one.

  I’ve never once captured an actual ghost on film, although I’ve taken hundreds of lousy pictures trying to do so. Even when they swirl in the steam of a hot cup of coffee, ghosts simply don’t show up on film or the digital version of it.

  Less than twenty-four hours after Malcolm updates Doug, the phone calls and emails flood in. I am still couch-bound and still in my skater skirt. I scroll through the photos attached to those emails, and scan the paranormal chat boards, looking for a connection.

  When my cell phone rings, I answer automatically. “K&M Ghost Eradication Specialists.”

  “You’re on the wrong track.” The voice warbles, like it’s streaming through an electronic filter. I place the call on speaker and wave Malcolm over.

  “What did you say?” I ask the caller, then press a finger against my lips.

  Malcolm nods, once, and crouches next to the coffee table, ear aimed at my phone.

  “You’re on the wrong track, and your client’s an idiot.”

  “How so?”

  “Do you really believe he can see ghosts? Capture them on film?”

  “Well, whatever he saw, I did too.”

  The caller snorts. The resulting burst of static has me clamping my hands over my ears.

  “But you’re not dim enough to call it a ghost.”

  “You don’t like Doug,” I say.

  The silence stretches for so long I think the call has dropped.

  “This has nothing to do with Doug. You should know that ... Malcolm. Yes, I know you’re listening in.”

  Malcolm slams a hand on the coffee table. I jump back, my heart thudding.

  “Who is this?” he says. “I demand to know who this is.”

  He’s always so cool, so calm, so Malcolm. But this? This is a side I’ve never seen of him. My ears strain for the caller’s response, but it’s Malcolm who holds all my attention.

  “C
an’t you figure it out? Oh, Malcolm, really? I never thought you were that dim.” A static-laden sigh travels through the speakers. “And your business partner is so pretty. Be a shame if those burns ended up on her face, wouldn’t it?”

  “Who is this?” Malcolm’s voice cracks.

  Mine doesn’t. “Don’t be stupid,” I say to the caller. “An empty threat is just that, empty and stupid.”

  “Who says it’s empty?”

  “I do. The victim has to care, and I don’t. Burn my face. I don’t care. I don’t care at all. But I do care about my friends—”

  “Are you sure you know who your friends are?”

  The speakers let out one last burst of static before going silent. My gaze meets Malcolm’s.

  “What the hell was that?” I say.

  “Katy.” He shakes his head. “Katy, I—”

  “Please tell me this is not where you make some horrible confession that changes everything.”

  I consider my demand—and the call. I’ve only known Malcolm for four months, and for one of those he was my rival in the ghost hunting business. How well can I claim to know him? Would I swear he is good and honorable and all those things a person should be, especially your business partner? Would I? What’s the alternative?

  “Oh,” I say, the realization sinking in, my lungs pulling a full breath at last. “Of course. Seeds of doubt. Who hates you—or me—enough to do that?”

  “Then—” he begins.

  “I think we’re being played. What do you think?”

  He props his elbows on the coffee table and rests his head in his hands.

  I ignore this. “This is personal, not paranormal.” Bed sheets and bridal veils. The thought strikes me hard. “You didn’t break an engagement or something before you moved here, did you?”

  I’m praying he’ll say no, or shake his head, or something. He remains statue-like still, as if in mourning.

  “Malcolm.” I leaned forward, smooth his hair, and then place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

  “Once upon a time, I had a brother,” he says. “Nigel.”

  Once upon a time? Despite the fairy tale start, something tells me this is going to be a dark story. “Had a brother.” I say the words slowly.

  “Technically, I still do. Around the time I discovered I could catch ghosts, my brother did too. Only instead of putting them into something, he swallowed them.”

  “Swallowed them? Is that even possible?”

  Malcolm gives me one anguished nod.

  “He’s filled with ghosts?”

  Malcolm nods again.

  “And resents you because?”

  His eyes meet mine. They are dark and damp and filled with so much sorrow, my heart constricts.

  “Because of you.”

  * * *

  I sink into the couch cushion as if Malcolm’s confession has knocked the wind from me. Perhaps it has, figuratively, at least. An eater of ghosts. I’ve never encountered such a thing; my grandmother never mentioned it.

  “How do I figure into all of this?” I ask.

  “You ... saved me. I was using the samovar as a holding place, so I wouldn’t swallow the ghosts, wouldn’t be tempted to.” He heaves a sigh. “Now that I know there’s an option, that I don’t have to carry them with me or inside me, I can live a normal life. You know why I was fired from the brokerage, don’t you?”

  “I thought it was the recession.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s the excuse. A layoff. After I graduated, my brother followed me there. My first job after college. I thought I was all set. Then Nigel shows up one day. He ...”

  Malcolm breaks off and searches the ceiling as if the words he needs are there. “He would stand in the public lobby, like some sort of crazed prophet, talking about ghosts—and of course, me. He harassed people, the women brokers in particular. It was…” He shudders. “Awful.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I thought it was all over. I took one suitcase and left everything else behind, except the samovar, and drove until I was nearly out of gas. I stopped here. I liked the town. I heard about you and your grandmother. I thought maybe you had the same problem I did.” Here, he shrugs. “It made sense to stay.”

  I guess it would. “I kind of hated you when you first showed up.”

  Malcolm tips his head back and laughs—the first light sound I’ve heard from him since yesterday. “I know,” he says once he’s caught his breath.

  “Do you want to swallow ghosts now? Is it like being an alcoholic?”

  He shakes his head, his smile still there, although his eyes grow somber. “No, fortunately. I don’t think I could function when we go out on calls if I did.”

  I wonder how true this is, but don’t contradict him. “What happens to the ghosts once your brother swallows them? Do you know?”

  “He says they give him strength, but I don’t know if they’re there inside, if they disappear or dissolve.” He shrugs, palms skyward. “Maybe they become part of him.”

  At his words, one horrible thought strikes me. “My grandmother!”

  “What?”

  “She’s ...” I choke back the words.

  I’ve never told Malcolm my secret, that my grandmother’s ghost haunts me. Or rather, she has a series of haunts, and when our bank balance dips to a certain level, she kicks up a ruckus—and we get a call and some much-needed cash.

  “My grandmother is a ghost,” I admit, at last. There. Now we’ve both confessed. I want to sink into the cushions, but the expression on Malcolm’s face won’t let me.

  “How can you know? You’ve said yourself that most ghosts lose their human personality.”

  “Most do, or they cling to one aspect of it. In life, the thing my grandmother wanted most was to take care of me. So in her afterlife?”

  “She’s still taking care of you—or us.” This time, his laugh is soft. “Last month’s ghost in the bank vault?”

  I nod.

  “I suppose she’s the one who shows up in the law offices as well.”

  “That too.”

  “What about Sadie?”

  Sadie Lancaster is my next-door neighbor, one who believes herself continually plagued by ghosts. “No, Sadie just has a low tolerance for sprites. But that isn’t my point.”

  Malcolm raises an eyebrow.

  “What if your brother finds my grandmother and swallows her?”

  * * *

  We’ve returned to Lasting Rest Mausoleum. Autumn chills the air. Although I’ve pulled on a pair of over-the-knee stockings, the strip of flesh between the wool and the bandages breaks out in goose bumps. But my feet are toasty in leather hiking boots, the rest of me in a leather jacket.

  I’ve spent the entire drive here ignoring glances from Malcolm, but now in the parking lot, I spit out an annoyed, “What?”

  “You look—” he begins.

  “Like you’ve walked out of his dreams, my dear.”

  It’s the voice from the phone, but where it comes from, and how it seems to echo both in my head and all around us, I can’t tell. It is yet another thing that defies logic and physics, like the floating bed sheet of the ghost from earlier.

  “Is this what you meant by harassment?” I whisper. “He made it ... personal?”

  Malcolm’s face contorts. He gives me one quick nod.

  “I’m sorry.” I mean it, too. I suspect this first volley is merely a hint of what his brother can deliver.

  The world around us has gone quiet. A breeze flutters my skirt, but I don’t hear the wind. No birds sing. It is nearly as quiet as I’m sure the inside of the mausoleum is. But this is where we need to be, if only because there are no ghosts here. My grandmother isn’t here. At least, I don’t sense her. Would she face off against this ghost eater if she thought he might hurt me?

  I know the answer and decide not to think about it, not now.

  “Why are we here again?” Malcolm asks.

  “Be
cause this is where it started, because when you have so many different people inside you, you probably need a quiet place. Isn’t that right, Nigel?”

  Silence answers me. Malcolm eyes me. I want to protest that no, I have not suddenly lost my mind. Instead, I say:

  “Let’s set up the camp stove.”

  We are outside, in the parking lot. If someone protests, we can point out that there isn’t a sign that states: No brewing coffee. Or tea, for that matter. Malcolm sets up the stove on the tailgate of my truck. I unpack the percolator and the Kona blend. A job like this, with an untold number of ghosts? Well, we need the good stuff.

  But his hands move slowly. His gaze darts to the bandages on my thighs. At last, he drops any pretext of starting the stove.

  “I can’t do this,” he says. “I can’t see you hurt again.”

  “I won’t be hurt.”

  He turns and cocks his head at me.

  “How about, I probably won’t be hurt. I’ll jump out of the way. We know what to expect.”

  “That’s just it, Katy. You don’t know him. I do. And he’ll go to any lengths—”

  “Ah, poor baby brother.” The strange voice is back. “Always trying to play knight in shining armor. It’s too bad your damsel in distress doesn’t want to be rescued.”

  It’s clearly the wrong thing to say, since the metallic words send Malcolm into a frenzy of activity, and soon the camp stove is pumping propane and heat into the air. I set the percolator on it, and the aroma of coffee joins the heat. Then I pull three more percolators from the front seat of the truck.

  Malcolm scowls at the sight. “Katy, what the—?”

  “How many years has your brother been swallowing ghosts?”

  His mouth draws into a thin, hard line. “I’m not certain. At least three, maybe more.”

  I expect that strange, metallic voice to cackle, but all is still. “That’s a lot of ghosts, and they’re going to want some coffee.”

  Malcolm blinks. “Or possibly some tea.”

  “Or possibly some tea,” I echo. I want to hug him, but I’m not certain I should. That might only give Nigel more ammunition, and Malcolm is already skittish.

  Wouldn’t I be? I scan the parking lot. If we can hear him, his brother must be close. “All those ghosts,” I say. “Do you think that helps him throw his voice?”