Is he even here? Maybe he went out the back once the ghosts released their hold on the doors. I plug in the percolator and take a few deep breaths so I don’t rush the preparations. Ghosts this strong will need the best coffee I can brew.
I survey the beans the assistant manager shoved at me. One hundred percent Kona? Really? Shame to waste that on ghosts. But the air prickles the skin on my arms. It must be fifty degrees in here and getting colder. One hundred percent Kona might not do the trick if I don’t hurry.
“Katy?” A voice rasps. For a second, I mistake it for a ghost. “Katy?” Too deep, too human for that.
“Malcolm?”
“In the dining room.”
I set the percolator to brew and run. On the threshold, I trip over something bulky and sail through the air. I land hard, but manage to tuck and roll. When I stop, the blown out end of a gold-plated samovar fills my view, the brass twisted into vicious curlicues.
A groan comes from the threshold. Malcolm props himself up on one elbow, his cell phone clutched in one hand, his shirt, torn and tea-stained.
“What happened?” I say.
“It just ... blew. I was adding in a sprite when—”
“Wait. You’ve been storing all the ghosts.” I heft the samovar, careful of the edges. “In here?”
He nods.
“You don’t release them?”
He shakes his head, eyes downcast. “I don’t know how.”
This sad, honest confession tugs at me. We don’t have time, however, to go over the finer points of ghost hunting.
“Can you stand?” I ask. “Walk?”
“I think so.”
“Then you can help.”
In the kitchen, I pour the twelve cups. Malcolm adds the half and half and sugar. From there, we divide and conquer, carrying the cups to various spots in the house.
“Be sure to put one in the master bath,” I call from the living room. “There’s bound to be one in there.”
“It won’t let me in,” he says a moment later.
Oh, really? Nasty little bugger. Ghosts and their toilet humor.
At the door to the bathroom, I ease the cup of coffee from Malcolm’s hands then kick on the door. It flies open with all the strength of the supernatural behind it.
Malcolm places a hand on my arm. “I don’t think—”
“It’ll be okay.” I hear it for the lie it is, and so must Malcolm, but he lets me go.
I close the door and place the coffee on the vanity. That icy patch of air flutters past, swirls into the steam, and revels in it. Oh, it is having the best time—at everyone’s expense, too. Before I can trap it beneath some Tupperware, that same feeling from the coffee shop washes over me. This is the ghost in the coffee machine. This is ... my grandmother.
The realization makes me drop the container. Malcolm pounds on the door, but I ignore him.
“Grandma?”
Now, the ghost swoops around me, a frigid caress against my cheek.
“What are you doing? I thought—”
Something that sounds like hush fills the air. Whatever her mission, it’s not for me to question.
“I love you,” I say. “And I miss you.”
I pick up the container and my grandmother flows inside, compliantly. I secure the lid and hug the Tupperware to my chest. During her life, my grandmother was right about most everything. But here’s where she was wrong:
I do like her as a ghost.
* * *
We drive out to the nature preserve, a good thirty miles from town. In a deserted campsite, I demonstrate how to open containers and set ghosts free. I even let Malcolm release a few. (Only the sprites, but you have to start somewhere.)
“Will they come back?” he asks.
“The strong ones can, but most choose to stay here, or find an old barn to haunt. Something’s got to scare all those Scouts on camping trips, right?”
Malcolm studies the backs of his hands. The beautiful olive skin is pink from scalding.
“You should put something on that,” I say. “Before it scars.”
“A little scarring never hurt anyone. I’m sorry for a lot of things.” He raises his hands. “But not for this.”
I nod and he gives me a piercing look that I swear could scar—if I let it.
“You know something,” he says, “I think this will work.”
“What will?”
“You and me. I’m all sizzle, and you’re the steak.”
“I’m a vegetarian.”
He throws his head back and laughs. And while I have no clue what he means, I can’t help but like the sound of his laughter.
* * *
I let my fingers trace the gold lettering on the window—for the tenth time in as many minutes. I can’t help it, can hardly believe the words are real.
K&M Ghost Eradication Specialists
In the store window, the gold-plated brass samovar sits, backside hidden in midnight velvet. Somehow, Malcolm talked the bank manager into a small business loan. Somehow, we’re on retainer with the only law office and investment firm in town. Somehow, my worry about bills and property taxes has evaporated.
Malcolm still wears the scars from what we call the day of the ghosts. He boasts a few fresh ones as well. So do I. We take a new, electric samovar with us when we go out on a call. Because even I must admit: some ghosts prefer tea. Sometimes I feel that particular presence and an icy caress along my cheek. Sometimes I say things that make Malcolm throw his head back and laugh.
What I don’t tell Malcolm: I do it on purpose.
What I don’t tell my grandmother: I know what her afterlife’s mission really is.
And I love her for it.
CONTRARY TO POPULAR BELIEF, it’s hard to find a ghost in a cemetery. But a mausoleum? Like the sterile one Malcolm and I are now walking through? That’s going to be even harder. We trek along the endless halls. Wall after wall. Drawer after drawer. The interior is all windows, steel, and marble. Sunlight pours through the glass and makes me wince. Even so, Lasting Rest Mausoleum is—quite possibly—the coldest place on earth, or at least in this county.
“I don’t sense a thing,” I say to Malcolm. Actually, I whisper it, which is ridiculous, since we are the only two people on the third floor.
“Let’s keep going,” he says, voice equally hushed. “Maybe there’s something. Plus, I promised.”
We seldom turn down a ghost eradication job, it’s true. Often it’s no more than a mischievous little sprite. They love to play jokes. If anything might haunt a cemetery, it would be a sprite. Whatever else you think you sense, see, or experience is a product of your imagination, fears, and repressed feelings. You don’t need an exorcist. You need a psychiatrist.
I know how to deal with ghosts. But this place? The space feels hollow in the wrong sort of way. At least in a cemetery, grass cushions your feet. The grave markers hint at stories, lives, and loves. Birds chirp. Dragonflies buzz.
“They should pipe in some music.” I glance toward the ceiling as if in search of hidden speakers. Nothing disturbs the smooth marble surfaces.
“I read an article once, about the cleanup at Chernobyl,” he says. “They had to pipe in music for the workers since there were no other sounds.”
I wonder if he realizes he’s compared the Lasting Rest Mausoleum with the world’s largest nuclear disaster.
He coughs, glances around—maybe so I won’t see the blush in his cheeks. “But it’s a clean, well-lighted place.”
Yes. He realizes. “I don’t think this is what Hemingway had in mind,” I say.
Malcolm chuckles. I love his laugh, but it’s the wrong sort of sound for this place. “Let’s replay the video,” he says. “We’re getting close to the spot.”
I think it’s an excuse to hear something other than our footfalls and breathing. He pulls out his phone and brings up the recording. In it, our client, Doug, is touring the mausoleum much as we are, only with a video camera in his hand. Occasional
ly he speaks directly into the lens, but mostly it’s a rocky, virtual trip through these halls. I sway, motion sickness overtaking me.
“You okay?” Malcolm steps closer, places a hand at the small of my back. A hint of saffron from the tea he carries reaches me.
He is very much warm and alive in a place that is not. He smells of nutmeg and Ivory soap. I like being close to him, but I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. I don’t want to give myself the wrong idea.
I keep my distance.
On the screen, Doug’s trek continues.
“Doug didn’t even notice the ghost while he was filming,” Malcolm says. “It was only after he reviewed the video that he noticed something odd.”
This does not lend credence to Doug’s claim, but I remain silently skeptical.
“There!” Malcolm says. The cold marble walls bounce the word back at us and seem to gobble it up all at once. The space is greedy for all things alive.
What looks like a white bed sheet flutters on the screen. It’s a child’s idea of a ghost. I’ve said as much to Malcolm, but feel compelled to mention it again.
“Ghosts don’t look like that. It’s probably something he edited into the video.”
“I don’t think so. He’s not that tech savvy.”
“You don’t have to be that tech savvy these days. You could hire someone to do it.”
Malcolm turns to me now, arms crossed over his chest, phone still clutched in his hand. “Why would someone do that? He’s paying us money, good money that we need, to investigate—”
“And eradicate.”
“And eradicate, if necessary. Why go to all that trouble and expense?”
Oh, there are so many reasons. When I worked with my grandmother, we encountered them all. Some people crave the attention, or are so lonely, they desperately need it. Having a ghost select them—or their house—to haunt? Well, that must mean they’re something special. Or so the reasoning goes.
But Malcolm is new to the business. He is what my grandmother would have called feral—not in a bad way. Ghost hunting is both an inborn trait and a skill that is passed down through generations. Long ago, his ancestors no doubt made a living doing what we’re doing now. But when I met him, he didn’t even know how to perform a proper catch and release.
We match our steps to those on the video to where that white fluttering vanished into the wall. A fan is stationed at this corner. In fact, several fans are positioned throughout the building. Clean. Well-lighted. Not ventilated. But then, the dead don’t need to breathe, do they?
“The fan would account for the fluttering,” I say. “Some fishing line, a bed sheet or an old bridal veil? Instant ghost.”
“And they rigged it up how, exactly?” His gaze searches the walls and ceiling.
Oh, yes, he has a point. No place for a pulley and ropes. No place for a conspirator to hide. It’s a mystery, but I doubt it’s an otherworldly one.
“Malcolm, I just don’t think—”
“I’ll be honest, Katy.” His words are rushed, anxious. “I’ve already spent the deposit.”
I know ghost hunting, but Malcolm knows business. His words send a chill through me that rivals the temperature in this place.
“Rent, on the office space,” he says. “Bargain eradications aren’t going to keep us in business. Some people are starting to embrace their sprites and live with them.” He shrugs. “It’s sort of a thing now.”
My grandmother and I always made ends meet—more or less. It took Malcolm to untangle the mess of property taxes on the house I inherited from her. I don’t have any savings and only just started a retirement account—and only because Malcolm insisted. When it comes to money, I trust him.
I ease the pack from my shoulders. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to set up the coffee, at least. If there’s a ghost, it will come out for that.”
The long marble bench makes an excellent station. Malcolm unloads the cups and thermoses. I pour. Twelve cups, like always: three black, three with sugar, three with cream, and three extra light and sweet. Everyone has a favorite, even ghosts.
“We could get out the tea, too,” I say to him.
The smile melts some of the worry from his face. “Let’s see how picky they are.”
Usually, I brew the coffee on the premises, but we decided for this first run to use the field kit. If it works well enough in abandoned barns and warehouses, then it should work here. Steam rises from the cups, warming the air, infusing it with a tangible thickness.
“Ow.” Malcolm sticks a finger into his mouth, although that’s no way to treat a burn. “Careful, it’s still scalding hot.”
“Good. Have you ever seen what a ghost does with a lukewarm cup of coffee?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“It’s messy.” I have a dozen coffee-stained shirts to prove it.
He holds his hands over the rising steam. “It feels better in here.”
It does. Even so, the air is devoid of everything but the coffee’s aroma. No glimmer. No swirling in the steam above a cup. I have the Tupperware ready for the catch, but at the moment, there’s nothing to catch.
I’m about to suggest tea, since perhaps this is a particular sort of ghost, a choosy sort who is only lured by the exotic. Malcolm’s tea recipe, an old Persian one, is all kinds of exotic. Before I can say a word, a screech echoes down the long hallway, the sort of sound that raises the hairs on the back of your neck.
Something swoops. Something flutters. Bed sheets. Bridal veils. It might be either or both of those things. The force of the swoop upends the coffee cups—all of them. The liquid splatters everywhere. On the tombs, the silk flowers that adorn them, the floor.
Me.
Black coffee strikes my thighs, the scald instant. I yelp, then pluck at my jeans, the material too hot, too tight, too slippery for me to grip. I can’t move fast enough, pluck hard enough. My skin flashes with pain. At last, I unbutton the fly and yank.
By the time the material is past my knees, it no longer has the power to burn. I slump on the damp, coffee-covered floor and push my palms against my eyes. I will not cry. I will not cry.
“Katy!” Malcolm slides to the floor next to me. “Jesus, let me look.”
He eases me back. His intake of breath is not reassuring.
“How bad?” I ask, palms locked on my eyes.
“Hospital bad, as in I’m dialing 911 bad.”
I peer through my fingers at him. “We don’t have money for an ambulance.” We are two townships from home. An ambulance will cost what? More than I think we should spend, perhaps more than we have to spend.
“We’ll make the money, somehow.”
“My truck. It’ll be just as fast, and there’s a burn kit in the glove compartment.”
“The EMTs—”
“Can’t do anything more than I can on my own.” Honestly, he can’t lecture me about finances then expect me not to be fiscally responsible.
“Compromise.” He holds up a finger. “You’re not walking anywhere.” He tugs off his fine white dress shirt, which is now speckled with coffee and less than fine. He helps me stand, helps me ease the jeans off my legs, then creates a makeshift skirt from that shirt.
Then, in knight-in-shining-armor mode, he sweeps me into his arms and carries me down the hall.
“I can walk,” I protest.
“But you’re not going to.” He heads down the stairs.
“There’s an elevator,” I point out.
“And with our luck, we’d end up trapped. No thanks.”
He has a point. Whatever that thing was, it has a vendetta. Messing with the electrical system is something a strong ghost might do, on occasion, although I’m still uncertain that’s what we encountered.
“Maybe we should’ve served it tea,” I say.
He grunts a laugh and crushes me closer to his chest. Nutmeg. Ivory soap. If there’s an upside to being a damsel in distress, it might be this.
Malcolm secures me in
the truck, seatbelt and all, as if he’s afraid I’ll bolt back inside to fight more ghosts. His instincts are spot-on, for I point and say, “Our stuff. We just can’t leave it.”
Those are precision-made German thermoses and matching cups, not to mention everything else in our field kit.
“But I’m not sure you should go in alone,” I add.
His gaze darts from the mausoleum to me. Fine grooves form around his mouth and eyes. “You’re right,” he says. “But someone has to. Stay.”
Like I’m going anywhere half-dressed. I give him a mock salute. Malcolm rushes off, and I stare after him, tracking his progress inside through the window as he dashes up the stairs. Then, he vanishes.
I wait. And I wait. My thighs sting with enough force it steals my breath. I should pull out the burn kit, start in on first aid, but my eyes are locked on the mausoleum. My shoulders tense, and I inch ever closer to the windshield. That’s when I see it. That’s why I see it. Something white. Something that flutters. Bed sheets. Bridal veils. Whatever it is, it circles the mausoleum in what can only be described as a victory lap. The thing is ... gloating.
Malcolm bursts through the glass doors of the mausoleum, field kit clutched to his chest. I nearly tumble from the truck with my efforts to point toward the sky. But the thing is gone, and when Malcolm turns to look, all that greets him is blue sky.
He throws the field kit at my feet and clambers into the driver’s side. “Katy?”
“I saw it,” I say.
“It?”
“The thing. The thing from Doug’s video.”
“Do you know what it is?”
The truck rumbles to life and he throws it into gear. The way is smooth, but the suspension bad, so we bounce down to the main road.
In all my years of ghost hunting, in all the stories my grandmother told me, I’ve never seen or heard anything like this.
“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.
Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) Page 2
