Ghost Bully

by Brian Corley

  “I hadn’t thought too much about it actually,” I said.

  He gave me a strange look.

  “What?” I said. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve been having a good time. Besides, some of these ghosts are bad enough. Why would I want to think about worse things out there?”

  “There are worse things out there, Jonah, and some of them are starting to petition to take action against you.”

  “Petition? Are you serious? Are they canvassing South Congress to get signatures? How many do they have so far?”

  “Funny,” Seph said, standing up and stretching. “You’re funny.” He began to pace around the room. “Do you know the story of Job?”

  “Yeah.” A little, I thought.

  “OK, so Job was this guy—good guy, another one of God’s favorites. But Lucifer—always quick to point out that God’s favorite creation could be flawed—asked God to give him a shot at testing him.”

  “Yep.” I nodded. “I’ve heard this.”

  “Ever think about how he asked God to do that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Most people think that Lucifer—Satan, the Devil—is some dark, gross, spiny-horned, bat-like demon sitting on a throne in Hell. That he’s bitter and figuring out how to ruin people’s good time on Earth. They’re partly right—he’s definitely looking to ruin someone’s good time. But he’s not some grotesque-looking creature. As a matter of fact, he’s quite handsome, and a lot of fun to be around.”

  I cocked a ghostly eyebrow. “What?”

  “Seriously, he was and is supremely impressive. I mean, you should see his hair—it looks fantastic. That was always part of his problem. Anyway, his confidence turned to pride, and his pride let him think he had a better plan to run things, and that’s what got him booted from the Host.

  “He still comes around from time to time to try to illustrate his original point—or maybe just to be a contrarian dick. Part of me wonders if God allows him back to eventually work out for himself that he’s wrong. Anyway—so Lucifer saw that Job was God’s favorite and thought the guy had it too easy and that maybe with a little bit of adversity, Job would start to turn on Him. Well, we all know he didn’t, and Lucifer went on his way to do whatever he does with his time.

  “Point is, that type of petitioning occurs all over. Most things stay local, but sometimes issues bubble up to those two. Imagine it as kind of like the Supreme Court here in the US.”

  “So you’re saying that demons are starting to petition to come after me?” I asked.

  He took a beat and nodded. “I just want you to be aware of what’s happening around you.”

  I nodded back and looked down at my ghostly silk pajama pants while I zoned out to think. Just when I thought I had it figured out—I thought this was just going to be fun.

  “Speaking of being unaware of what’s happening around you, did you know Electric Fern is playing tonight?” Seph asked.

  “Who’s Electric Fern?” I replied.

  “Wow—it’s worse than I thought. First off, technically it’s who are Electric Fern? They’re a band. A great band. Your afterlife isn’t all about secret clubs and symphonies. You get fantastic views of actual great living bands too. Want to go?”

  “Sure,” I responded.

  Why not? What else did I have to do besides sit here and worry about demons coming after me now?

  Chapter 19

  We made our way downtown to a club on Red River Street known for its barbeque and live music. There were two stages: one inside that held a couple hundred people, and one out back that overlooked a gravel-covered open space fenced in by scrap wood and sheets of corrugated metal.

  Red River Street ran perpendicular to Sixth Street and was one of the last bastions of live music downtown. The show was on the stage out back and was packed with a couple thousand people in attendance.

  The band walked out to thunderous applause and played a solid opening set. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t heard of these guys before now, and they had been touring steadily forever. I also couldn’t believe we could go wherever we wanted—no backstage passes needed. Chalk up another perk of the afterlife.

  I looked at the smiling faces singing along in the crowd. The ghostly contingent made a pretty good showing as well. We had the luxury of a 180-degree point-of-view spectrum to choose from. Some chose a ground-level view in the crowd in front of the stage, while others floated around above and behind the stage.

  Taking it all in, I noticed a familiar face toward the back of the lot. Somehow managing to isolate himself even in a c

  rowd was Willard Hensch. Maybe moving was the best thing to ever happen to him. He was actually out in the world—around people.

  He noticed me looking and was gone almost as quickly as I saw him—as fast as the moment between blinks.

  I turned my attention back to the band and enjoyed the show, trying to sing along to a catchy chorus that was new to me, but obviously not to the crowd. The crowd shouted in unison, some with their arms raised toward the band. It was then that I noticed another familiar form across the stage.

  Leaning forward against a railing, holding a beer and looking down at the band from a deck built to hold VIPs, was the man I’d seen at the diner the other night. The one sitting alone at the table. Again, he struck me as someone who was there by himself, quiet and stoic as those around him danced and sang along with the band. He vacantly looked on, took a pull on a long-neck beer bottle, and walked away into the crowd, presumably back inside. Did he just see me and walk away? Am I paranoid?

  Probably, but news that a demon attorney has their sights set on you can really do a number on a guy.

  I wrestled my attention back to the present and to the amazing show in front of me. Damn, these guys were great. After a couple encores, the band called it a night, and the crowd started to disperse.

  “What did you think?” Seph asked. “These guys are alright, huh?”

  “Yeah, they’re amazing. I can’t believe I hadn’t heard of them before,” I replied.

  “That’s good,” he said, poking me in the chest to make a point. “It’s nice to discover things out there we never considered before, huh?”

  “Subtle as a hammer, Seph.”

  He laughed. “Hey look, man, I gotta get going. Think about what we talked about tonight, and watch yourself.”

  “I did that once,” I replied. “It was weird.”

  “You’re funny,” Seph said, floating off. “Hope you stay that way.”

  What a night, I thought as I floated out and onto Sixth Street. It was one of those times I really missed being able to drink. Eventually, I got to Austin’s premier ghostly nightclub and phased through the wall to a packed house—looked like some serious overflow from the concert along with the regulars. There was a big band on stage—four-piece horn section, two guitars, bass, keys, and a singer all dressed in black suits—and they were killing it.

  Out of habit, I walked over and leaned against the bar. There were others there, some on stools, some standing, and some with drinks in their hands. It looked right for a bar, but I just couldn’t get into it. Why have something in my hand I couldn’t really use?

  “Hey you,” a voice purred from beside me.

  It was the Cheshire Cat girl I kept running into—my night was looking up.

  I looked over and tried to play it cool, acting surprised, as if I didn’t recognize her voice immediately from the one conversation we had.

  “Hey,” I said like a real Cyrano de Bergerac. “Great band.” I nodded toward the stage.

  “Yeah,” she said, nodding back and smiling, “they’re one of my favorites here.”

  “You come here a lot?” I asked.

  “Yes, quite often actually,” she replied.

  What a great accent. I steeled myself. It was time to draw on a t
rusty pickup line that had been passed down to me from an old friend in high school. Well, maybe not old, but he was a senior when I was a junior—that isn’t important.

  We’d been through many a battle before, me and the pickup line, and it was time to call upon it once again. The cavalry trumpet in my mind blared, and we charged into the fray.

  “So you’ve probably heard a thousand pickup lines before, maybe even a couple hundred right at this spot.”

  When her eyebrow rose, I knew she was wondering where I was going with this.

  “So I shouldn’t even try one of those,” I said.

  “I’d advise against it,” she replied.

  “So I should really just try to get to know you.”

  “Good idea.”

  “If you could be any animal in the world, what would you be?” I asked.

  “Hmm. Good question. Land or sea?”

  “Land.”

  “OK. I’d say an elephant because I would be smart, formidable, but still social,” she said.

  “Interesting answer. An elephant, huh? OK, same question, but now the ocean,” I replied.

  “Oh, that’s easy—orca. Same reasons as before. Did you know that they can kill a great white shark?”

  “Yes! I’ve seen a video of that, fascinating,” I said.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “OK, last one. If you were a fruit, what would you be?”

  I asked.

  “Tough one, tough one. I think I’ll go with tomato,”

  she said.

  “Did you say that because most people don’t think it’s

  a fruit?”

  “Maybe … what?” She punched my shoulder. “What?”

  “Nothing, I just think you’re more of a fineapple,” I replied.

  Yes! Near-perfect delivery. Every pause in delivery, every nuance, played right into my hand.

  “What is a fineapple?” she asked.

  My ego turned to ice while my sense of irony touched it lightly with a small hammer, disintegrating me internally into a million different pieces. Dammit, the accent was a dead giveaway. We’re from two different worlds. Why did I think that would work?

  I started to explain, “See, it’s a dumb play on words—”

  “I know,” she laughed. “I’m fucking with you, idiot.”

  “Nice one,” I said, thankful I couldn’t blush anymore. “

  Nice one.”

  We had a Cameron Crowe-ian moment as we turned our attention back to the band while we enjoyed the music and the proximity of each to the other.

  The band finished their set, and we decided to take a walk down Sixth. It was a nice night, the sky was clear, and the moon was almost full. We were a few blocks down the sidewalk before either of us spoke.

  “So,” she started. “There is a lot of talk about you, Jonah.”

  Cool, she remembered my name—maybe not the takeaway here, but cool.

  “Really? What kind of talk?” I replied.

  She turned to look at me as we walked, and then turned back. “Some say you’re going around kicking people out of their homes—like some sort of vigilante.”

  “Like Batman,” I offered. “Do you think I should wear a cowl?”

  “So it’s true,” she said with a soft smile. “Yes, it would improve your look.”

  “Hey,” I shot back, a little hurt. “I guess I could see how it could come off that way. Mostly I’m just trying to help people.”

  “By kicking them out of their homes?”

  “I don’t think I’ve actually kicked anyone out of their homes, but I’ve definitely ushered out some unwelcome otherworldly houseguests.”

  “I’ve heard that too. They say you can do crazy things, make things appear from nowhere.”

  “You mean like a nightclub with bands playing phantom instruments?” I said sarcastically and pointed behind us. How were my abilities any more remarkable than the guy who created what we just left?

  “It took him years to create that club. It takes a musician time to create their instrument, and they have almost imprinted on them anyway from years of practice. From what I hear, you can just make things.” She splayed her hands out in front of her face like an expanding flower. “Poof.”

  Huh. I didn’t think of that.

  “Who are ‘they,’ by the way? They sure know a lot,” I said.

  She smiled. “I have my sources. Maybe a little bird told me. Perhaps you could show me, Jonah.”

  “What,” I said, “here?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Nah, not here—too many people.”

  I had the idea that the outdoor art gallery would be a perfect spot at this time of night, plus it had the added symmetry of our having met there once already—kind of. She agreed, and we floated up and over in that direction.

  We landed on the sidewalk along Lamar and walked the rest of the way over. A bottle on the ground caught my attention.

  “See, one way to do it is to grab at an object that’s actually there.” I stopped, reached down for the bottle, and came back with its ghostly facsimile. “See?”

  “Impressive,” she remarked. “What else can you do?”

  “Hmm. I can do this,” I said as I turned the bottle into a paintbrush, waggling my eyebrows, inviting an impressed response.

  She breathed out a polite laugh. “OK, I can see how that would be useful here.”

  In a moment of inspiration, I grew the paintbrush four feet in length and tossed it toward the bottom wall of the outdoor gallery. The brush sailed through the air and started applying a ghostly message across the surface with the flourish of a form at the far end: the image of Maximus Decimus Meridius from Gladiator, his arms outstretched with a sword in one hand. The inscription read: “ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?” in bold block letters. It was good work, and I didn’t even know I could pull it off until that moment. I turned to her and then back to the painting, my arm moving in a showy presentation, then I collapsed into a dramatic bow.

  She gave me a polite round of applause and a small bow

  in return.

  “Very good,” she said, “very impressive.”

  She floated over and stalked the length of the wall, inspecting my work, stopping to take in the detail of Maximus and nodding in appreciation. She took a breath and turned to face me.

  “I’ll be going now, but I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”

  I thought she was joking and tried to express as much by leaving my mouth open in a dumb grin, but she walked behind a tree and disappeared like the damn Cheshire Cat again.

  I waited around for a few minutes just in case, but she didn’t come back. Dejected, I blinked back to the house.

  The lights were off when I arrived, and Max was probably asleep. I floated through the door to my room—the physical one, not the one to the other side.

  Floating over to and above my bed, I wondered when I’d see what’s-her-name again, and decided to flip through some channels to take my mind off her until the sun came up.

  Chapter 20

  The next night I faded into the sounds of people talking, laughing, and other general hallmarks of a good time. Something about waking up to those sounds really sets a guy off in a good mood. I floated out of my room to see Zoe and Max on the couch in an intense, but obviously entertaining conversation. Max was telling a story, his upper body leaning forward, his hands making wild flurries of gestures. Zoe was leaning in toward Max, hanging on every word and looking highly entertained. I floated on into the kitchen to find—a kitchen table!

  It was a smallish ’50s-modern-style circular table, wrapped in chrome, with a pearloid plastic top that had slightly yellowed with age. It had four chairs, all chromed out, and what looked like red vinyl upholstery for the seat and back. Each chair held a Psy-kick in various
stages of reclining or posing, and they were playing a card-based board game. They cracked up after almost every hand that was played. Cool haircut Quinton leaned back on the counter in repose, sipping coffee and taking in the scene with rapt attention.

  “Hey everybody,” my voice crackled through a small radio set on top of the fridge in the kitchen.

  The smiles around the table dimmed. Apparently, my voice meant that the game was over and it was time to work. Quinton straightened up and looked around, as if he was going to be able to see me, and returned my greeting.

  “Hey Jonah, good morning.” He raised his coffee mug in a mild salute.

  Zoe and Max joined us from the living room. Zoe had an unslung messenger bag in her hand and indicated with a nod for the Psy-kicks to make some room on the table. She set the bag down, released some sturdy plastic fasteners, and opened the bag to the satisfying sound of strong Velcro. Unzipping a pocket, she pulled out a manila folder and started passing around sheets of paper to the group. She’d typed up a rundown of our job for the night and started walking us through what we should expect.

  Max took his sheet and leaned against the kitchen counter next to Quinton as Zoe told us about our clients: Judy and Glenn, a couple in their mid-forties. They lived in Hyde Park, the last refuge of Austin’s aging and fading hippy community, just north of campus. The neighborhood used to be a mix of craftsman- and bungalow-style homes, but as prices in the neighborhood increased over time, the type of buyer changed as well as the architecture.

  Larger, contemporary craftsman homes replaced some of the smaller houses with an increase in sleek modern architecture as well. Old Austinites pointed to this neighborhood, as well as Barton Hills and Zilker, to complain about how Austin was losing its charm. That said, there was nothing more Austin than complaining about how it was much cooler in another, bygone era.

  Judy was the CFO for a regional bank in town, and Glenn was a VP of HR for a large tech company based out of California. They bought the property a little over two years ago and had to clear the lot after a house fire damaged the existing bungalow beyond repair. They replaced the structure with a large, three-story, modern, angular design.