“I’m afraid so.” His expression turns tender. He reaches out to touch my cheek—the right one. “One more reason I’m grateful to you.”
I shiver, although the air inside the cab is warm. Our conversation has fogged the glass. If anyone walks by, they’ll think we’re doing something other than talking in here. For a moment, I ponder the possibility of my parents being necromancers. I don’t remember them at all. Photographs of them evoke no memories, not even manufactured ones. My few questions always made my grandmother so sad that I eventually stopped asking.
“What about Friday, at the club?” I say now. This notion has been eating at me for the past two days. Did we walk into a trap or did Malcolm lead me there?
“I didn’t know that thing, that entity, whatever it is, would be there. It was a coincidence.”
“It’s an awfully big coincidence.”
“Maybe, but you know, ghosts gossip just as much as people do. Plus, I took you to a haunted dance club, a spot where a lot of necromancers hang out. If anything, it happened because I’m really predictable.”
“You are?” If anything, Malcolm leaves me off balance.
“Sure. A trip to my alma mater? I was showing you around. Frat house, favorite restaurant, favorite club. That’s Psych 101.”
“Then why did that thing thank you for playing a part?”
“Because the part I was playing was simply a guy trying to impress a girl.”
This should not please me as much as it does. Malcolm has lied. For all I know, Malcolm may still be lying. I will be cautious. I will clamp my lips together so no hint of a smile shows.
“If I’d been thinking—really thinking—I would’ve seen the theft of Mr. Carlotta’s Purple Heart for what it was: bait for a trap.” He sighs again, adding to the fog on the windshield. “Do you really care about anyone’s flat screen TV?”
“I don’t even own a TV.”
“There you go. But you care about Mr. Carlotta. So this entity manipulates a couple of weak-minded individuals to steal a few things, including the Purple Heart, and I unwittingly do the rest. And I’m sorry, Katy, really, really sorry.” He rubs his jaw as if it aches. “And I’m scared of what this means.” He points to the spot on my left cheek.
“You said it meant that thing can find me.”
“It does.”
“Does it...” I begin, then pause. I’m so tired of calling it thing or entity. “Does it even have a name?”
“I’m sure it does. I was trying to find out more yesterday. Called in a few favors, talked to a few old friends, that sort of thing. Made me wish my grandfather were still alive. He would know what to do.”
“So you don’t know its name.”
“You don’t want to know its name. To speak the name out loud is to invoke the entity.”
“You mean, poof? There it is in front of you?”
“That’s exactly what I mean, and only a well-prepared necromancer would ever do that.”
“So even if someone knows what it’s called, they won’t tell you.”
“Exactly.”
“Could you write it down?” I venture.
Malcolm laughs, not a full-throated one, but the sound of it fills the cab with warmth.
“You never give up, do you?” he says.
I shake my head.
“Katy, I don’t want you trying anything. I’m worried what this might mean for you. Remember at the mausoleum, when I kept getting that vendetta vibe?”
I nod.
“I think it means you.”
“But ... I haven’t done anything to this entity.”
“What about your grandmother?”
A week ago, I would’ve declared of course not. Now? Now I have to consider that I may have never fully known the woman who raised me and taught me all about ghosts.
“This thing is ancient,” Malcolm says. “Time means little to it. So, if it feels like it, it might take its revenge on you. Or wait and take it on your granddaughter. But I think it finds you ... intriguing.”
“So you’re thinking sooner rather than later, but sooner for it could be when I’m sixty. Or it could be tomorrow.”
He raises a hand and lets it drop onto his lap, defeated.
“Well, then,” I say, and turn the key in the ignition. “We’d better get going and investigate Ghost B Gone while we still have time.”
* * *
The doors to the green and white Victorian are flung wide open. A tech crew is tramping up and down the porch stairs, lugging in all sorts of electronic equipment. Two people are wrestling a generator toward the side of the house. Out front, a card table holds sodas and sandwiches. Static buzzes in the air, and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck prick up, but it’s not from fear or even the sensation of someone watching us.
No, just the cool kiss of a sprite before it veers off through the open doorway.
“See?” Malcolm whispers. “You brought them another ghost. They should put you on the payroll.”
“Hardly. This?” I gesture toward all the activity. “Is like setting a cake in front of toddlers and asking them not to touch it. I’m sure the sprites are overjoyed. All this attention? On Halloween? The most they usually get is a few screeching kids.”
Together, we take a few steps up the walk. When no one stops us, we take a few more. At last we cross the threshold without anyone noticing. Inside, we pick our way through cables and electrical cords. The buzz of static is more insistent here. Someone is feeding lines from the generator through an open window, and the breeze that sneaks in makes the space feel more abandoned, despite the crowd.
“Welcome!” someone booms out. “Welcome, friends!”
A man approaches, hand extended. His face, behind round lens glasses, beams. At sixty, he’ll make a jolly mall Santa Claus. Now, at about thirty, he’s wiry and bearded and quite possibly the true source of all this buzzing static.
He pumps Malcolm’s hand and then mine. “Good to meet you! Good to meet you! I’m Gregory B. Gone, and this is my show.”
“I’m Katy Lindstrom—”
“The ghost catcher! Of course.” He turns toward Malcolm. “And you must be Malcolm Armand. So good to have the local talent on hand.”
Local talent?
“Really lends an air of authenticity to the show. My viewers love that. Did you hear? I just broke one million.”
I glance at Malcolm. Because really? I have no idea how to respond to such a statement.
“Any luck with sponsors yet?” Malcolm asks.
Gregory lights up. Yes, leave it to Malcolm to know what to say.
“Not yet, but I have a line on a couple. But then, you know how tough that is.”
Gregory tugs Malcolm away in a move so slick I barely notice. That’s fine with me. I head off on my own to peer beneath tables, thump on walls, and trace cables. I can’t quite tell if this is nothing more than elaborate stagecraft or if Gregory B. Gone truly believes in all of this.
At my side, the thermoses of coffee I made this morning slosh in the canvas bag we use as a field kit. I push open a swinging door and land in the kitchen. The space is empty. No chairs. No table. I ease onto the island, a bare and icy marble slab, the rack above it like a black skeleton. It’s just a little bit creepy sitting beneath it, like the metal arms will reach out and grab me.
I decide I need company, so I open a thermos, pour a small cup, and then hold it out like an offering.
“Yeah, I know it came from a thermos,” I say to the air, “but I just brewed it this morning and it’s some of my best.”
The metal cup warms my fingers. The aroma flows throughout the kitchen as if this space has been longing for the scent of food. I study the steam rising from the coffee’s surface. Within a minute, a glimmer appears. That didn’t take long.
“Thirsty?” I ask.
The steam wavers, and the sprite basks in the heat and flavor, clearly enjoying itself.
“I’m not sure I know you.”
So
me ghosts feel familiar. My neighbor Sadie’s sprites are like playful children or puppies. Mr. Carlotta’s ghost is heavy and sad, and of all the ghosts I’ve encountered in Springside, it must be the oldest. My grandmother, whom I now realize I haven’t sensed in the past two days, is vibrant, feisty, and very much like she was in her life.
This one, here in the steam? I think it’s new. Or maybe we simply haven’t crossed paths before.
I’ve just topped off the cup when the swinging door flies open. Gregory B. Gone fills the space with his booming words.
“So here’s where you’re hiding.”
“I’m not hiding.” I hold the cup so the steam—along with the ghost—is in his line of sight.
He eyes the coffee. “Doing a little reconnaissance? I think it’s going to take more than that to draw these entities from their hiding places, and I’m not sure you should attempt it on your own. They have an evil reputation. But then, living here, you would know that.”
I open my mouth to contradict him, but Malcolm stands at the threshold, a finger pressed to his lips. So I bite down on my words.
“Would you like some coffee?” I say instead. “For you and your crew? It’s perfect drinking temperature, so I won’t be able to use it to catch anything. Hate to see it go to waste.”
I’m certain my offer doesn’t carry past the kitchen door, but it’s like I’ve broadcast it through the entire space. The kitchen fills with people. Someone brings in the sandwiches. Someone else passes around Styrofoam cups. I pour out every last drop that I have in the thermoses. People tap cups, make toasts, and drink.
The sprite leaves in a huff, smacking Malcolm on the back of the head on its way out.
“Like it’s my fault,” he whispers when he reaches my side.
“Let me introduce you to a few of our regulars,” Gregory says. “Nick, our tech support. Rajeev keeps us electrified. And of course, we couldn’t make contact at all without our medium, Terese.”
The two men nod, more interested in coffee than ghosts. Terese, ethereal, with flowing white hair and dusky skin, kisses first Malcolm and then me on both cheeks.
“And while you won’t see much of his face, we have Tim, who runs the cameras,” Gregory says.
I whirl around and confront the lens of a video camera, its eye trained on me.
“Are you filming this now?” I ask.
Gregory bursts out laughing. “Of course we are. And we’ll be streaming live tonight for Halloween, when we’ll finally rid this place of its ghosts. We’d love to have your help.”
“Halloween is our busy night,” I say.
“Trust me, all the action will be here. So, what do you say?” Gregory urges both Malcolm and me closer, placing a hand on each of our shoulders. “Can I count on K&M Ghost Eradication Specialists?”
I’m paralyzed by the lens trained on my face, but Malcolm’s voice comes sure and smooth.
“Of course. We’ll be here tonight.”
Gregory does something—I can’t say what, exactly—but Tim relaxes his hand and the camera sags in his grip.
“Perfect,” Gregory says. “Splice together a promo. Be sure to include Katy saying ‘Are you filming this now?’ It’s adorable. And plenty of Malcolm for the female demographic. In fact, fire up some of our sock puppets and have them start talking about the haunted hottie. That’ll up the views.”
He squeezes our shoulders before letting go and then claps his hands together. “Tonight’s the night, people. Tonight’s the night Ghost B Gone makes a true name for itself. No more scraps. No more begging. Everyone will come to us from now on.”
He shoos them from the kitchen and, as quickly as they arrived, they vanish, leaving behind stains on the marble countertop, a scattering of Styrofoam cups, and the scent of stale coffee and sweat.
“Is he going to put me on the internet?” I ask, although I’m pretty sure I know the answer.
Malcolm frowns. “I think he already has.”
“I don’t like this,” I say. “I don’t like that I can’t figure out whether it’s stagecraft or if he believes in what he’s doing.”
“Or if it’s a little bit of both.”
“And what did you two talk about that I wasn’t privileged enough to hear?”
Malcolm snorts. “He talked. Tim trailed us with his camera. I’m beginning to think I’m along just as eye candy.”
“The haunted hottie?”
His lip curls as if I’ve handed him a cold cup of coffee. He looks as appalled as I feel.
“Well, you do dress nicely,” I say. Malcolm does, in crisp oxford shirts and pressed trousers, all leftovers from his days as a broker for an investment firm in Minneapolis. “And you are handsome. You’re probably photogenic, too.”
“What did you call me?”
A flush invades my cheeks. Or more accurately, my right one. The spot on my left is stubborn and cold and waxy. Something about that pings in the back of my mind, but with Malcolm staring at me, one eyebrow slightly raised, I can’t grasp what that might be.
“Photogenic,” I say.
“No. The other.”
“Handsome.” My voice is maybe more breathy than it should be.
“Do you think that?”
“Maybe,” I say, giving my shoulders a shrug. “Or maybe it’s just a simple fact.”
His lip doesn’t curl at this, at least. For a long moment, he simply scrutinizes me. Then he laughs.
“So, partner,” Malcolm says, the humor still in his voice. “What do you think we should do tonight?”
I survey the kitchen. True, the electricity is out, and I doubt Gregory B. Gone will spare any from his generator. Still, there’s plenty of room for the camp stove. Through the window, I notice cloud cover has rolled in. The dark, menacing sky might just cancel Halloween.
“We could set up in here,” I say. “Halloween is one of the few nights Sadie’s sprites don’t bother her. We might even find them here.”
“So you don’t think there’s anything here but sprites?”
“I just saw the one. You?”
Malcolm shakes his head. “This place doesn’t even feel haunted, just empty.”
“Like it should have a family in it, some life,” I add.
He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. He takes a slow turn around the kitchen. “Does this place feel too empty to you?”
“Too empty, like what?”
“The mausoleum?”
Before I can inhale a deep breath, gauge whether the air here feels like that of the mausoleum with all its stale, lifeless stillness, thunder rumbles the house with so much force, the windows rattle. The rack above our heads creaks and sways. A fine sprinkling of plaster from the ceiling coats the marble slab. Malcolm grabs my hand and jerks us both away.
“Why don’t we go get ready for tonight?” he says.
“Are you sure?” I say. “This place could fall down around everybody’s ears.”
“If we’re here, with supplies, we can stop things. If the sprites get out of hand, we’ll just fire up the camp stove.”
I nod. That makes the most sense. Once the ghostly word gets out that something is happening here, it will draw the sprites. So many in one spot can be a problem. They aren’t the awful, evil things of movies and books, but so many together results in chaos.
“All right,” I say. “Let’s go get ready.”
We race through the rain to my truck. By the time I fling myself into the cab, my hair is slicked to my scalp. Drops slither down my spine. Malcolm’s shirt is so soaked, it’s gone from light blue to dark.
“You might want to change before tonight,” I say.
He squeezes water from a sleeve. “I think you might be right.”
I drop him at his apartment, and we agree to meet back at the Victorian half an hour before Ghost B Gone starts streaming their show. But as I turn the truck around and drive back the way I came—a way that takes me by the house again—I wonder if I’m missing something about
tonight.
I let the engine idle, truck blocking the road, but this is a residential street that never sees much traffic. I blink, certain what I see is my imagination—or possibly part of Gregory’s stagecraft. The clouds hang lower over the place, the rain pelts harder, the air is darker, somehow.
Terese emerges from the house, hair whipping in the wind, and the strands look alive, like snakes or tentacles. I think that this, too, must be part of Gregory’s stagecraft. Her gaze lingers on me before she offers a smile.
I blink again. In that moment, I lose sight of her. She is no longer on the front porch, hair taking on a life of its own. She is not in the yard. I did not see her step back inside. She is not here.
She is nowhere.
* * *
I leave Belinda with a second pot of coffee and some sandwiches from the deli.
“I’m a terrible hostess,” I tell her. “Leaving you like this.”
“Are you kidding?” She already has the sandwiches cut into quarters, a cup of coffee poured, and my laptop fired up on the kitchen table. “This.” She points a sandwich quarter at the screen. “Is going to be awesome.”
On the screen is Ghost B Gone’s YouTube channel. And on their channel, right now? The promo for tonight’s show. Belinda has paused the video so I’m frozen in time, my mouth open to say: Are you filming this now?
I sigh. She laughs, then sobers.
“Be careful, tonight, Katy,” she says. “I’m not sure I’d trust this Gregory guy.”
“He’s a lot of hot air and words.”
“Yeah, and if he manages to say the wrong ones? Who knows what he’ll conjure up?”
“It’s just sprites,” I say. “Malcolm and I checked out the place this morning. Low level, mischievous sort of haunting.”
Belinda is silent.
“You don’t think there could be anything more, do you?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “It’s just that your grandmother always told me not to go around looking for ghosts, or even asking if any were around. It draws them out.”
This is true. When we called out the meaner ones, we always did so with a cup of coffee and some Tupperware at the ready.
Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season Page 17