Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season

by Charity Tahmaseb

  “Yes, actually, it does.”

  I jump and whirl around, but no one is behind me. Malcolm stands next to the tailgate, clutching a samovar, one he’ll use to brew tea.

  “Oh, you’re clever,” I say. “Isn’t he clever, Malcolm?”

  Malcolm stares as if I’ve lost my mind. Perhaps I have. “But there’s a difference between clever and smart, and you’re not being very smart.”

  A howl of protest goes up, but it’s all air and golden leaves and little more.

  “Because it isn’t very smart to swallow ghosts.” When there’s no response, I continue. “How do you keep them all in check? Each one wants something, right? How do you manage? How do you keep them from leaving?” I return to the tailgate and the camp stove.

  There, Malcolm sets out the cups. I pour. He adds sugar. I add cream. We work like my grandmother and I used to, our movements like a perfectly choreographed dance routine. I smile at him. Worry crinkles the lines around his eyes, but he gives me a small smile in return.

  Scented steam fills the air. The parking lot is thick with the aroma, and combined with the cool autumn day, this could almost be paradise, or at least, a version of it. Barring Lasting Rest Mausoleum looming over everything, of course.

  A cry rends the quiet, followed by a choking sound.

  “They want out, don’t they?” I say. I get no response.

  “Katy, look!” Malcolm points, then reaches for one of our Tupperware containers.

  Above one of the cups of coffee, something swirls. It’s a puny thing, hardly more than a sprite, but its presence tinges the air, makes it glimmer in a way steam alone can’t. Malcolm traps it easily in the container. The thing doesn’t even put up a fight, but merely sinks to the bottom as if it needs a good rest.

  He peers at the container and then at me. “It’s exhausted.”

  I nod.

  “Ghosts get tired?”

  I shrug. “Maybe from being inside someone else, with so many others?”

  Maybe. And maybe it simply doesn’t matter, not when a second, third, and fourth swirl above two cups of coffee and one of tea. We trap them, one by one, and place the containers in the back of my truck.

  The stillness catches us off guard. We’ve been so busy catching ghosts that only now do I notice that the air is stale. The steam sinks into the cups as if it has acquired weight. The world is silent and devoid of everything—smells, sounds. I inch closer to Malcolm, but even his Ivory soap and nutmeg scent eludes me.

  “It’s like the calm before the storm,” I say.

  He nods toward my truck, not so much at it as the space beneath it. He taps his fingers against his thigh, a countdown.

  Three … two … one.

  We both dive beneath the tailgate. The asphalt tears at my stockings, scrapes my bare skin. Malcolm tugs me close while around the truck, coffee and tea rain down. It’s a storm and it’s unrelenting. The laugh that follows rings hollow and makes my heart squeeze tight.

  “Bravo, bravo. But did you really think coffee would work?” That metallic voice is triumphant.

  Malcolm eyes me. I’m afraid my expression must convey it all: yes, I really did think coffee would work.

  “The ghosts are exhausted,” I whisper. “They really want to leave. They need a reason to break free.”

  That’s when I feel the familiar and icy caress against my cheek. She must swoop in and nudge Malcolm as well, for his eyes go wide.

  “Katy, that’s not—”

  “It is,” I say. “That’s my grandmother.”

  She continues to swoop and nudge, as if she could push me from beneath the truck. I flip over and low crawl my way from its shelter. I roll and miss most of the larger coffee puddles. They’ve lost all their scent, and the air above them is cold and stale, but as my grandmother whirls around the truck, a glimmer returns to the day.

  Somewhere in the far-off tree line, a howl reverberates.

  “More coffee,” I say. “And tea.”

  Malcolm fires up the camp stove. I measure out the grounds. In the back of the truck, my grandmother swoops around the Tupperware containers, the ones with occupants. The ghosts rattle, then sink, rattle, sink. She darts back and forth before streaming across the parking lot. I catch the barest glimmer of her near the tree line.

  I grip Malcolm’s wrist. “She’s using herself as bait.”

  His face is stricken. He shakes me off, then, before I can say or do anything, he bolts across the parking lot, toward the tree line, his brother, and the ghost of my grandmother.

  * * *

  From the moment Malcolm vanishes into the trees, my world goes quiet. Make the coffee, I order myself. Make the coffee, pour the cups, add the cream and sugar. Move your hands and everything will be okay. Move your hands.

  My legs twitch. It’s all I can do not to tear across the parking lot after them. But if the coffee isn’t brewed, if the containers aren’t out and ready to capture ghosts, then whatever happens to my grandmother and Malcolm will be for nothing.

  I count the cups. I pull out extra containers and count those too. What I don’t count on is seeing the fluttering bed sheet, that pretend ghost, in my peripheral vision. I cast my gaze toward the tree line, then back toward the fluttering. My heart sinks.

  “Bed sheets and bridal veils,” I say out loud.

  That strange, metallic voice laughs.

  “Vendetta?” I venture.

  This time, there is no response.

  “There are two of you,” I say. Has it been this … thing all along? I think I know the answer and dread washes over me.

  “Ah, close enough, my dear. You are far cleverer than ... who is he, again? Your business partner?”

  I clutch one of the percolators to me. It’s not much of a weapon, but the metal heats my frigid fingers, and the handle is sure and steady in my grip.

  “You are not Nigel,” I say.

  “Again, brava.”

  “Who are you, then?”

  That laugh fills the air. With it comes the absence of everything—the aroma of coffee, the saffron from the tea. It’s as if this thing—whatever it is—sucks up everything with a hint of life.

  “It gives me substance,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “Not much, but I do appreciate your effort. You do make a damn fine cup of coffee.” A sigh kicks up some dried leaves. “I miss drinking coffee, almost as much as I miss walking. It’s strange, really, how much I miss the simple act of moving myself from one place to another. Of course, there are other … pleasures I miss as well.”

  I scan the parking lot, but every time I catch sight of that fluttering bed sheet, it somehow whisks away.

  “People imagine that to be ethereal is to be divine. It isn’t, of course. In fact, you might say it’s rather hellish, especially when all you want to do is stroke the cheek of a pretty girl.”

  That bed sheet appears before my eyes. It flaps as if draped from a clothesline. An edge touches my cheek. Before I can leap back, it entwines itself around my neck. Pressure against my windpipe makes me drop the percolator. Coffee splashes my shins, but I barely feel the heat. All my attention is on getting air into my lungs. I clutch at my neck, but all I do is rake fingernails across my skin.

  Then, in a flash, the bed sheet flies away, once again teasing my peripheral vision.

  “See? It’s just not the same. Now, if I had a body ...”

  I cough, unable—at first—to respond with words. I hold a protective hand over my neck; the other clutches the side of the truck. “Nigel,” I say at last. “You want Nigel. You lured him here.”

  “With some help. You. His brother. That imbecile Doug. You see, my dear, for a ghost eater, I’m the ultimate prize. Of course, I’ll have to do a little housekeeping once I’m inside. Kick everyone else out, for starters—”

  “How does a ghost get so powerful?” I turn in a slow circle. His voice comes from everywhere. There must be some sort of trick.

  The stale silence of the parking lot gre
ets my question. “How does a ghost become so self-aware?”

  Most, I believe, run on instinct, my grandmother a possible exception. But this thing?

  “I am older than your grandmother. I am older than her grandmother. I am older than you can possibly begin to imagine.” The voice fills the parking lot, seems to fill me. “I was here when mankind first crawled from the slime, and I’ll be here when you bomb yourselves back into it.”

  “Then why would you want to be a puny human being?”

  “I believe I already gave you my reasons. Indeed, I may have just added you to my list of those reasons.”

  “Seriously?” My neck aches, but my words come out strong. “Is that supposed to scare me?” I pick up a percolator, although this is only a ruse.

  “It should.”

  I walk around the truck and open the driver’s side door. I lean in, as if reaching for one of the bags of sugar. The bed sheet strikes the windshield. I pull my legs inside the cab and slam the door before it can follow me in. I start the engine. I’m about to peel out of the parking lot, in search of Malcolm, when in the rearview mirror I see that bed sheet flutter and dive.

  The tailpipe.

  I shift into first anyway. I press the accelerator. The engine sputters and dies. I reach for the key, determined to try again.

  “I wouldn’t, my dear. Carbon monoxide poisoning is a nasty way to go.”

  I concede that this obnoxious entity is correct. So I blast the horn instead.

  Now, in the side mirror, I see two figures. Both run. Both glimmer. My grandmother must be keeping pace with them, blurring their images. No matter what Nigel has done, I need to warn him. He can’t swallow this creature. This … thing will kill him, erase any trace of the brother Malcolm knows and—I suspect—still loves.

  But I can’t leave the cab without the stupid thing choking me again.

  “No, I’m afraid you can’t.”

  “Stop that,” I order.

  “I’m not reading your mind, not really. It’s just that all your thoughts play so clearly across your face. It’s like watching a stage actress.”

  “Watch this.” I hold up my middle finger.

  The entity merely laughs that grating, metallic cackle. The sound freezes both Malcolm and Nigel in place. Then they both race forward again. This time, though, it’s as if Nigel is bolstered by supernatural strength. He’s thinner than Malcolm, but his legs stretch farther with each step, and he outpaces his brother easily.

  He is nearly to the tailgate when I fling open the cab door.

  “Nigel, no!” I shout. My throat aches and my words emerge with a croak. “It’s a trap.”

  I’m right. It is. But not in the way I think. That bed sheet bursts from beneath the hood of my truck and drops down on top of me. Someone screams, but I don’t think it’s me. My mouth is too full of what feels like mist. I cough and choke. I push, but there’s nothing to push against.

  Nigel crashes into me. For a moment, we’re both trapped beneath a fluttering white bed sheet that is there, and at the same time, not there. But he’s done this before and knows what to do. He opens his mouth as if for a big yawn, and then I am free.

  Nigel falls to the ground. His legs and arms twitch. I am only two feet away, but the chill that rolls off him is a force pushing me back. I can’t get close. I can’t help him. Malcolm catches me from behind, wraps his arms around my waist.

  “The ultimate prize.” Malcolm’s voice is ragged in my ear. “That’s what he kept saying. The ultimate prize for a ghost eater.”

  “A trap. That thing will ... use your brother, maybe already has been using him. I’m sorry.”

  Malcolm’s arms tighten around my waist. He buries his head against my neck. “I’m sorry, too, Katy, for bringing this to you.”

  I don’t want to watch, but know I should. If I must fight this sort of being, then I need to know all its tricks. Nigel rolls on the asphalt, through puddles of coffee and damp leaves. He clamps his hands over his mouth.

  “He’s not giving up the ghosts,” I say.

  “Is that good?”

  “I don’t know, but it isn’t part of that thing’s plan.”

  When I notice the darting glimmer, I can’t say. Perhaps at first, I only think it a trick of the September afternoon light. But this light has purpose. It moves and swoops—just like my grandmother.

  “Oh, my God, she wants in,” I say a second before Nigel uncovers his mouth.

  My grandmother dives inside.

  This time, the scream is mine.

  * * *

  Nigel stops twitching. He rolls onto his back, closes his eyes, his face almost serene. An infant asleep. Or a man near death. In my mind, I hear an echo of a voice, a command from long ago.

  Katy-Girl, the coffee, now!

  “Coffee!” This comes out as more air than word, but understanding lights Malcolm’s eyes.

  We race for the camp stove. Except for the pot I removed earlier, the rest remains, brewing and steaming and filling the air with an aroma to rival the best coffee shop. Malcolm pours cups of tea from the samovar. When that heady mixture of saffron and spice strikes the air, I think I hear a cheer, the sound both joyful and otherworldly.

  “Katy, look!” Malcolm points and we round the truck together. “Do you see them?”

  “I do!”

  One by one, glimmers emerge from Nigel’s mouth. Tiny ones, no more than sprites. They streak toward the brewing coffee. They dip and dive in the steam before compliantly sinking into one of the Tupperware containers by the truck’s left rear wheel.

  “They’re happy to be free,” I say.

  And they are. Happy. Grateful. A few swoop by me, giving me a ghostly kiss on their way to a container. Granted, one smacks Malcolm on the back of the head, but it’s more of a ghostly version of a buddy shove than any sort of retribution.

  Sprites are one thing. Nigel has just swallowed something very nasty. We will have to face that.

  During my years of ghost catching, I’ve only witnessed a full-on ghost infestation three times, two in homes, once in an old barn. Never have I seen one inside a person, but that can only explain Nigel’s current state. He appears glazed over, as if a thin sheet of ice covers him. His lips turn blue; his eyelashes are frosted.

  “More heat,” I call to Malcolm. “More steam.” I refill the percolator. Malcolm turns the knob of the camp stove to high.

  “Let’s bring the cups to him,” I say a moment later. “Tempt them out.”

  When the coffee is ready, I pour. Malcolm adds the cream and sugar, the spoon clinking against the sides of the cups.

  “Three black,” he says, “three with cream.”

  “Three with sugar,” I say, picking up the chant. “And three extra light and extra sweet.”

  “Because even ghosts have a preference.”

  Twelve cups. Always. The way my grandmother taught me. We rush the cups of scalding coffee across the parking lot. Hot liquid sloshes over the sides. My hands throb with the scalding, their skin bright pink. I keep up the run until a circle of coffee surrounds Nigel, the ceramic mugs gleaming in the sunshine, bright blues to rival the sky, the green deeper than the chemically enhanced lawn of the mausoleum behind us.

  With all twelve cups in place, it’s like Nigel is some strange offering to the god of caffeine. Steam rises into the autumn air, the vapor clouding my view of him. He is hazy, as if we’ve tucked him in for the night in a blanket of fog.

  His entire body trembles. He cries out, once. Then, the world glimmers.

  From his mouth, ghosts stream. The more powerful ones jostle the mugs, send coffee splashing across the asphalt, my hiking boots, Malcolm’s loafers. They whirl, kick up leaves and pebbles with the force of their escape. We grab containers and catch the slower ones. Some bypass the coffee, intent on freedom—and that is anywhere but our Tupperware.

  I don’t sense my grandmother. I detect no hint of that ... thing, the one who flutters bed sheets and makes me think
of bridal veils. Nigel bolts upright. He coughs. He strikes himself in the solar plexus as if giving himself the Heimlich maneuver.

  What emerges from his mouth is an inky swirl of dark purple, tinged with green, like storm clouds during a tornado warning. It does not glimmer. It oozes. I take a few steps back and bump against Malcolm. He grips my shoulders, and it’s his heat that keeps me steady.

  The thing floats inches from my face. The air around it is stale, devoid of scent. Its presence fills my head. Cold metal. Gray sleet. And thoughts I force myself not to think. Bed sheets. Bridal veils.

  “Know this, Katy,” the thing says in its strange, metallic voice, words clicking against my eardrums. “You can’t run.”

  Malcolm pushes himself in front of me, but the thing drifts skyward as if filled with just enough helium to give it lift. The breeze takes it and carries the inky mass away until the blot against the sky at last vanishes.

  Malcolm swears softly in my ear, giving voice to my thoughts. Then I whirl.

  “My grandmother!”

  We rush to Nigel’s side. He is still, his face pale, eyes shut. Malcolm sinks to one side, I land on the other. I close my own eyes to hold back the tears. True, I’ve lost my grandmother to death. That she follows me now during her afterlife has been more of a comfort than I’m willing to admit. Now I fear the goodbye is for real.

  “Katy.” Malcolm’s voice is soft. “Look.”

  So I do. There, emerging from Nigel’s mouth, is a soft, shimmering glimmer, robust and able to withstand the breeze. Thirsty, perhaps, for a cup of coffee—two sugars, extra cream.

  “It’s the yellow cup,” I tell her.

  Before she swoops in for her reward, my grandmother’s ghost swirls against my cheeks and dries my tears.

  Malcolm holds his brother’s hand. “He’s breathing, his pulse is fast, but I think that’s to be expected.”

  “Should we—?” Before I can suggest calling 911, Nigel bolts upright.

  He coughs, a shudder convulsing his body. His eyes clear. “Malcolm?”

  Malcolm nods.