by Leslie Edens
My knees gave way in fear, and I tumbled into the foot-well between two seats. I curled against the wall, hugging my legs, blue electricity sparking through my entire body. The skeleton moaned and moaned while I cowered below.
I peered over the edge of the seat. The skeleton sat, unmoved and still. But the wretched moaning grew stronger, the jaw swinging open in a miserable cry. “Ohhh-ohhh-ohhh mi!”
Quaking, I readied myself to run, but the moans ached of such yearning, my fear ebbed. In that moment, I stood. Over the horrid moaning, I called, “Please! I’m looking for my brother. Sam, is that you?”
It didn’t feel like Sam. When the moaning abruptly stopped, the deep voice that spoke didn’t sound like Sam—it sounded brisk and angry.
“No hablar con el conductor cuando el autobús está en movimiento!” it said and expelled another miserable groan.
“Hola? What did you say? Qué?” I tried my limited Spanish. I never paid enough attention in Spanish class.
The voice crackled broken English. “Hi say, no talk to driver when bus moving! Okay, you sit down.”
More misery and more moaning. Definitely not Sam. The voice, whoever he was, lost in a delusion of life and movement. Clearly, something had happened to put an end to that. I ventured to say, “But the bus isn’t moving. No en movimiento, Señor.”
“Qué?” said the voice. “QUÉ?!”
The bus filled with thuds, squeals of tortured metal, the crystalline splash of glass, a thousand breakings, followed by screams. The reverberations of a crash, horrible and heavy, crepitant bone upon bone, then the moaning again. That horrible moaning amplified a thousand times.
Over the still bones of the skeleton, nebulous flesh took shape. A translucent man glowed in a green jacket. He tipped a bus driver’s cap and bowed his balding head. He was stout, with warm, lambent eyes and a dense black mustache. The man smiled, finger to his lips, in silent shush.
“Hi,” I said. Awe replaced fear. My blue glow melted away.
“Esper! Uno mas esper!” He chuckled at me.
“Are you a ghost?” I asked. What was Spanish for ghost? I should know this!
“Mi nombre es Valente de los Santos.” His deep voice resonated around the inside of the bus, seemed to swell, then fall away.
I dug into my pathetic Spanish vocabulary desperately. “Your name is Valente? Um . . . oye, cómo vas?” I said.
“Muy bien, gracias,” he said. I think he was just being polite. He certainly didn’t sound like someone things were going well for.
“Señor, usted . . . mira . . . el hombre nomo Sam?” I cobbled together some of my worst pigeon Spanish yet. Confusion contorted Valente’s face. I cursed my ignorance.
“I speak Ingles, little,” said Valente. I’m sure he thought his English would beat my Spanish, and I agreed.
“Okay, Señor. Did you see a man named Sam?” I blinked at the headstone seats, the window cracks, the vapors that veiled it all, and added, “In here?”
“Samhain de los Espers? He no here.”
“Wait. You know Sam?” My mouth hung open.
“Sí, Señorita. He no here. He go, a Cuidad del Muerto.” Valente pointed to the darkened ceiling. I followed the upward direction of his finger, then shook my head. Sam had not gone through the ceiling. I breathed deep, coughing on the miasmic cocktail of ghost vapor and bus filth.
“Thank you, Señor. I mean, muchas gracias.” I had to ask. “One more thing. Is Sam . . . dead?”
Valente’s eyebrows met in the middle, then his mouth widened in laughter. “Samhain no es muerto. No dead. Alive.”
“You’re certain he’s alive?” I asked, breathless.
Valente nodded, eyes serious. His eyes lucent with a golden cast. Kind of like my own.
“Sí, es bueno. Samhain is alive,” he said.
Some of the weight of fear lifted from my heart, though not all. I smiled and stepped closer.
Valente flickered in and out, and fear trickled up my spine again. How dark this bus was!
“You drove this bus? El conductor?” I asked.
The question set off such an excited spate of Spanish that I had to block my ears to make Valente realize I couldn’t follow his rapid speech. “Never mind. I can tell you’re a ghost,” I said. Stepping close to him, I reached over to pat the apparition. My hand passed through his form and brushed cold bones beneath. My skin tingled with charge, and when I drew back, little tendrils of blue clung to my fingertips.
I wiggled my fingers until the blue disappeared. “You must have died here, in the bus crash.”
“Sí, sí!” Valente said and spoke rapidly again. I could make out “niños,” “autobus,” “muerto,” and little more.
A smash sounded nearby, in the junk piles outside the bus.
Valente cocked his head again. He nodded. A grin flickered across his round face.
“They come,” he said. His image wavered. “Los mortales.”
His image hazed, then swirled in mists and vapors, dispelling into dark air.
“Wait! Don’t go,” I said. I leaned toward him.
“Adiós, Señorita,” said Valente, hollow-voiced. I found myself staring into the vacant caves of the skull’s eye sockets. I jolted back, knees shaking, and raced to the stairwell.
I wondered how Valente could know Sam? Was he the ghost who wrote to me at the séance? But I didn’t think so. They didn’t sound much alike. Valente spoke mostly Spanish, while the writer turned an English phrase with ease.
Then there was the apparition with eyes like black holes. I thought back to Sam’s words. “There are things in this junkyard . . . well, I don’t need to scare you.”
Chapter Ten
The Mortals
Whispering. I could hear it above the wind that whipped through the junk piles and threw sand in my face and hair. Ghost whispers? Spirits calling? Or something more mundane.
“I can’t believe we came all the way out here! Lily, what are we doing?” Trenton’s voice squeaked among the creaking, windblown junk.
Los mortales. The mortals! They had indeed come.
I rounded the end of the closest junk pile and nearly smacked into the three of them. Lily adjusted her glasses and cheered. “Heather!”
Oskar had his arm slung around Trenton’s shoulders. He whispered in his ear, and Trenton giggled. They both waved to me, all smiles.
“You were supposed to go straight home,” I said, crossing my arms.
“Oh, we did,” said Trenton, “But we sneaked out again.”
“Even you, Lily? I’m shocked,” I said. “What will the Coterie think of this?”
“She’s right! We’re in danger!” Trenton started huffing and puffing with anxiety, until I worried he’d hyperventilate.
Then, just as if he’d known Trenton for years, Oskar squeezed Trenton’s shoulders and said, “Calm down. It’s an adventure! You’ll be fine.”
Trenton’s face reddened, and I thought he was choking. Then he relaxed so quickly, he appeared to be melting. He gave Oskar a relieved smile, and their eyes met—Trenton’s frenetic blue with Oskar’s cool hazel. Again, I felt a twinge of envy as they gazed into each other’s eyes for a long moment.
If only someone would gaze at me that way. I’d never meet anyone special except ghosts. What boy would be interested in a paranormal weirdo like me?
I released a big sigh. “You want to tell me why you’re here? In the middle of the night, in this very haunted junkyard? For example. I just saw a full-body emanation on the old school bus. Says his name’s Valente.”
“Really?” they all said. Oskar and Lily leaned forward, while Trenton gritted his teeth.
“No joke. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few more show. Is that why you’re here? Hunting ghosts?” I said.
A thumping in the junk piles, then rhythmic breathing.
“What is that?” Trenton clutched Oskar’s arm.
I laughed, because I recognized the sound. Whistled. Sybil walked out from between t
wo tire piles.
“Ghost dog!” Trenton wrapped his arms around Oskar and squeezed his eyes shut.
“No, it’s Sybil. My Chihuahua? She’s strictly a mortal dog,” I said.
“I knew that.” Trenton smiled weakly up at Oskar. “I’m totally prepared, if something really horrible comes along.” I noticed he didn’t let go of Oskar, though.
“We actually came to break you out,” said Lily. “Oskar and I—”
“Lily and I had the same thought,” said Oskar.
“We both sat up reading the books you lent us,” said Lily.
“I was reading in my car when I noticed it,” said Oskar.
The wind whooshed by, colder than ever, and I shivered.
“Noticed what?” I said. The junkyard seemed almost to hum tonight, the air electrical and cold, fertile with ghosts.
“I called Lily,” said Oskar.
“He called me,” said Lily, “and I called Trenton. We decided the Coterie doesn’t need to know about this. Oskar picked us up, and we came to get you.”
“The Coterie never tells me anything,” complained Oskar. “I’ve been a member for a year now. There’s a serious communication problem between the old ones and the new members.”
“I thought you were the only new member,” said Trenton.
“That was true for a long time,” said Oskar, shaking his head ruefully. “Now you’re all inducted. Well, you’ll find out. Everything’s secret, on a need-to-know basis. Orders all the time that don’t make sense, and I just have to obey. Being a member of a secret society can be so irritating!”
I tapped my foot on the sand. More junk crashing, somewhere against the back fence. The wind was making me nervous, jumpy.
“What did you find out?” I demanded. “Tell me!”
“The Four!” said Oskar. “The spiritualists that ruled the town, twenty years ago. Their actual names are kept hidden. I found out today your dad was one. Able Despair. But my book also mentions Maximilian Pollander!”
“And my book mentioned that my uncle, Arturo Benavidez was one. I guessed that, from what Abuelita said. But it also mentioned a Valente de los Santos,” said Lily.
“That is the name of the ghost I saw,” I said. I looked back, at the dark shape of the school bus. “He was one of The Four?”
“They all died, Heather. So yes, Valente would be a ghost. That part makes sense,” said Lily, very primly.
“Oh,” I said, a little disappointed they weren’t more amazed about the ghost.
“But Max!” Oskar was almost shouting. “That does not make sense! I’ve been spending time with him, on a daily basis! You saw him! The guy appears perfectly normal. Except—the guy is dead!”
“And as for me, I suspect the Cousin Art who drove you out here may be none other than my uncle Arturo Benavidez,” said Lily. “Also—supposed to be dead.”
“Could they have survived after all?” A dent appeared on Trenton’s brow.
I scanned around the dark, lumping shapes of the junkyard. Wondered who or what might be listening in on this strange conversation. “The one I saw was definitely, certifiably dead. Also, I can guarantee you that my father is dead. I saw him in the coffin.”
I remembered his still face, so quiet and calm in the satin-lined box. So unlike my father in life, who never stopped moving, who always had somewhere to get to, something to do.
“What does it mean?” I asked. “Maybe you’re wrong about who they are. Or those two didn’t die. They did both seem to be in hiding.”
But I thought of that dead electricity I sensed around Cousin Art, the cold that swirled in when Max entered, and I wondered. Could the dead hide among us that well?
How long before my father showed up here, too? If he hadn’t already. Someone got Sam away from here. Sam said he could hear Dad . . .
Spooked, I said, “What’s your plan?”
“We’re all going to Oskar’s,” said Trenton. “His parents have a big compound up the mountain outside of town, and it’s like an impermeable fortress. Plus, they have a huge stockpile of food from Costco. We could hold out for months.”
“It’s more like a lodge,” said Oskar. “You’re making it sound like I’m Batman.” He tickled Trenton, who squealed.
I looked from one to the other.
“Is it really safe?” I asked. “The Coterie told us to remain in our homes.”
“It’s got to be safer than this haunted dump,” said Lily. “I don’t rattle easily, but Heather—this place is scary.” She looked around, eyes wide. Everywhere, creaking, banging, whooshing in the junk piles. Garbage and sand blowing around, bits of junk falling. And it was getting colder.
Oskar’s sounded nice.
“Yeah, but Sam could come back here,” I said. “I better stick it out. Could you just take Sybil with you?”
“Sure,” said Oskar. “But what about you?”
“Abuelita said Sam was most likely to come back here. I’m staying,” I said.
“But Oskar’s compound could be our new base!” said Trenton. “Screw the Coterie, Heather Despair! They lied to us. We can start our own Coterie, with no weird, possibly dead, old guys.”
“Are you going to call it PEPPER?” I said.
I smiled and started to pick my way along one of the dark corridors. Sybil was just down here—I could hear that fast panting.
“It’s PEPPIC!” shrieked Trenton against the rising wind.
Snatches of their conversation drifted to my ears, as I searched in the dark for my black dog.
“Will your parents mind?” Trenton was asking.
“My parents don’t mind anything,” said Oskar. “They’re very liberal. They’ll love to have you stay.”
Oskar’s sounded wonderful. Maybe I could visit later. Where was that dog already?
“Sybil!” I called.
Cross o-ver. A whisper on the wind. I could swear I heard those exact words.
“I’ll cross over, all right,” I muttered. “To Oskar’s mansion of paradise and endless Costco food.”
I bet it was warm there, too. I was so tempted to just leave for the night. I shivered violently and wrapped my duster around me.
Passing a blacked-out corridor—midnight deep, bottomless dark, and the one where I’d seen the strange figure before—I glanced in. The void, featureless nothing on nothing, looked back. Wait. Was that a movement?
“Sybil!” I said, charging ahead. I plunged into the deep shadow.
“Where’d she go?” That was Trenton.
“I didn’t see—she just disappeared.” Lily.
“Heather Despair!” yelled Trenton.
Lily shushed him. “Trent! Do you want Bruce to come?”
“I’m down here,” I called in my loudest whisper, but a gust of wind whooshed past me and drowned my voice. I kept picking my way along the dark corridor. I’d go back in a moment. They were only fifty feet away. Then—a scrabble near my feet. I jumped. The scrabbling sound became a familiar whine. I strained my eyes and could barely make out Sybil’s black shape at my feet. “Sybil, come! It’s dangerous out here tonight.”
The little dog cocked her head as if to say, “Then why are you out here?”
A whoosh tremored past in the air. Maybe the wind. But maybe, just maybe, it was a spirit. I caught Sybil up in my arms and tucked her inside my coat. I began to back out of the darkness.
Behind me, a tinkle of metal, then a clattering roar of junk cascading downward. Flowing like an unruly landslide, the junk poured, filling the corridor between me and the Paranormals. Shaken by the slide, the pile on the other side of the corridor avalanched down, forcing me to run and dodge. When I looked back, I saw the junk slide had created an impassable blockade of twisted metal scraps.
“Oh no. Sybil, we’re trapped!”
Chapter Eleven
Emmett
Once the roar of junk settled down to a tinkle, I heard them calling me. I searched for an opening—any opening. Though the collapse of the high-
piled junk walls had let in more light, it left no easy exit.
“Heather Despair! Are you all right?” Had to be Trenton, shouting again.
“I’m okay!” I called. The mountain of garbage between us rendered their voices faint. “I think this wind set off a junk slide. Stay hidden from Bruce! I’m going to walk around and find another way out.”
“Okay, Heather!” I almost didn’t hear them, since another piece of metal junk had come crashing down behind me. I turned.
“Wow, this wind is really—”
I stopped. There stood a boy about my age, fifteen or sixteen maybe, who I did not know. He stood stiff in a formal black suit and tie, with a high white collar. His black curls were parted straight down the middle and plastered sideways. The irises of his eyes were black as midnight, and his face was so pale, it nearly glowed. Overall, he gave me the impression of watching black-and-white television.
He stood there, staring at me and not moving. I shivered. He stayed frozen a moment longer, then walked toward me and smiled. He moved normally and naturally, and I scoffed at my misgivings. He was just a guy, after all, lost in the junkyard or something. I waved.
“Hi! Can I help you?” I said.
“Hello,” he said. “That depends on where I am and probably a good deal on who you are, too.”
“Oh, you’re in Bruce’s junkyard,” I said. “Bruce is my stepfather, and this . . . is his junkyard. Do you need a guide to find the way out? You can come with me.”
The boy swiveled his head one way, then the other. “This is nearly the right location. You can help me find one thing. Is there possibly a school bus here?”
“It’s right over there. Or was, before all this junk slid in the way.” I pointed in the approximate direction of the bus. Why would he be looking for that?
“Excellent,” said the boy. He reached into his pocket and produced a large spider that trailed from his hand on its web.
“Careful! That might be a black widow. They’re really poisonous,” I said. I watched him jiggle the spider up and down like an eight-legged yo-yo. Something was very off about this boy after all.