Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1)

by Charity Tahmaseb

  Something about her attracts the nastiest ghosts around. Sprites are playful. The ghost that haunts Mr. Carlotta’s Purple Heart is melancholy to the point of thickening the air. The ghosts that find Belinda are cruel, twisted things that resent not so much their afterlife but the life they missed out on. So they like to make hers as miserable as possible.

  They can be difficult to catch, too. I’ve scalded myself more than once going after them. In high school, before big tests, I’d pack a thermos of coffee. During the four years at Springside High, I managed to splatter Kona blend over the tile of every single girls’ bathroom in the building. The last of Belinda’s ghosts I captured, in the rehab center, I drove out a good sixty miles before setting it free.

  “You might not want to answer this,” I say now, picking my way through the right words. “But can you hear them ... talk?”

  Before my grandmother died, I would’ve said, with full conviction, that ghosts don’t talk. They don’t send messages from beyond the grave. They’re not looking to unburden themselves so they can cross over into the light. Now? At least the talking part?

  “I ask because I’m starting to think there’s a lot I don’t know.” I cut a pancake into quarters, dip it in syrup, but don’t bring it to my mouth. “And I’m starting to think I can hear ... suggestions?” It’s more of a question than a statement.

  Belinda nods. “It’s like that. But when one of them latches on, it’s like having your worst enemy in your head, criticizing everything you do. Only without words. Feelings, maybe? The meaning is there, even if the actual words aren’t.” She shakes her head as if to clear it of ghosts and words. “It’s hard to explain.”

  “I think I know what you mean.”

  “And if you drink? You can blot them out for a while.” She presses her fingertips against her temples. “At least until the alcohol wears off.”

  “Then it’s worse.”

  She nods, once.

  “Only now,” I say, “I’m starting to hear them. I don’t understand why.”

  “Oh, well, that’s simple. Because your grandmother never wanted you to hear them.”

  Never ... what? I gape, and I must look hungry, because the waitress plops down another plate of pancakes in front of me. By rote, I spread butter, all the while searching for words.

  “How do you know?” I ask finally.

  Belinda shrugs. “She told me once, when she was trying to teach me, I don’t know, self-defense. The whole coffee trick you do. Even when she made the coffee, I still couldn’t trap them. She told me that a lot of it was up here.” Belinda taps her head. “If she told you that you couldn’t hear the ghosts, then you simply wouldn’t. It would make you a better ghost hunter in the long run. More focused. Less distracted by their chatter.” She pushes her hair away from her face. “God, they love to chatter.”

  I consider this. My grandmother taught me everything I know about ghost hunting. But lately, I believe she didn’t teach me everything she knew. Each day, the gap grows a little wider. Each day, I worry I may miss something crucial, something I should know.

  “I’d like to hire you,” I say.

  “Katy, I can’t take your money—”

  “Place to stay? Room and board? I live in a really big house with a lot of bedrooms. No ghosts. I almost wish there were. It would liven up the place.”

  Belinda laughs, and I decide not to mention the time when nearly all of Springside’s ghosts invaded the old Victorian. It was harmless. Mostly.

  “I’m lonely,” I admit.

  Belinda gives me a wan smile. “Me too.”

  “So? What do you have to lose? If we end up hating each other, you can move out. Deal?” I extend my hand across the table.

  My fingertips are sticky with syrup. So are hers.

  “On one condition,” she says, scooting from the booth. “We stop at the drugstore first.”

  * * *

  As a safety measure, I brew a pot of my very best coffee, a blend I make from a select group of beans. The aroma fills the kitchen, the steam of it warming every part of my face with one exception—the spot on my cheek.

  Belinda waves a makeup brush in front of her eyes. “If I stare at it too long, it’s like I forget where I am.” She takes a breath and anchors me to a chair, her palm on my head so she can tip my face upward.

  “I don’t think you should touch it,” I say.

  “Why do you think we went to the drugstore?” She points the makeup brush at some cream foundation and a makeup sponge. “Tools of my trade. I don’t actually need to touch your skin.”

  “Just be careful.”

  Belinda brushes and dabs, bottom lip caught between her teeth. The spot on my left cheek feels unreal and waxy. I hope it’s not spreading. I don’t want a blue face. I don’t want to be unreal and waxy. At last she sits back as if the whole process has exhausted her.

  “It’s better. Here.” She opens a compact and turns the mirror toward me. “Take a look.”

  Better. Not gone.

  “I can still see it swirl,” I say.

  “Yeah. That’s freaky.”

  “It’s like a tropical storm has invaded my face.”

  “How did you get it, anyway? Thursday you were looking fine and had two hot guys fighting over you.”

  “First, no one is fighting over me.”

  Belinda snorts.

  “Second, it’s a long story. It wasn’t a ghost, but it’s a ghost-like ... thing. An entity, maybe? I think I walked into a trap.” Or was led there. That the entity was lurking at the very club Malcolm and I ended up at seems less coincidental than I’d like to admit.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “No.” She shakes her head, and then her whole body shakes, like she’s fighting a chill. “It’s just when one of those ... things finds you, they have a hard time letting go. So, I understand, and I’m sorry it happened to you.”

  “That’s why I’m brewing up some coffee.” I try for bright and cheery. I pour the fresh brew into a thermal carafe. “This will keep it hot all day long. If you get an uninvited visitor, just uncap it and then run next door and call from Sadie’s. She has sprites, but they won’t bother you.”

  Belinda wafts some of the aroma toward her face. Her eyes close, and she sighs. “If I don’t end up drinking it all first.”

  I divide the remaining coffee between a second carafe and a half a dozen thermoses. “That’s what this is for. Plus, I need some for work.”

  She raises an eyebrow. How she makes that single gesture imply volumes, I’ll never know.

  “Malcolm is my business partner,” I say. “Nothing more.”

  “Yeah, well, if he were my business partner, I’d work overtime.”

  I decide that doesn’t need a response. I tighten the lid on my thermos and leave the house.

  * * *

  For a long time, I merely stand in front of our office, my eyes tracing the gold leaf lettering on the front window.

  K&M Ghost Eradication Specialists

  I was so thrilled when Malcolm unveiled that finishing touch. When my grandmother was alive, we always worked out of the house. But then, I’d been working since I was five. Something about that gold leaf makes all of this feel real.

  Inside, everything is how I left it on Thursday, like nothing has changed. We have a reception desk but not enough money to pay a receptionist. We work mostly in the conference room. That’s where Malcolm’s brother, Nigel, keeps his computer. He’s building us a ghost database, making a website, and can probably do other computer-related things I haven’t even thought of yet.

  The conference room is where I find both brothers. Something sparks in Malcolm’s gaze when I enter the room. Relief? Hope? Or something I can’t read?

  “Is it...” Malcolm squints. “Is it fading?”

  “Makeup. It was too distracting. It kept hypnotizing people.”

  He swears.

  Nigel glances up from th
e computer screen. “Oh, Jesus, Katy, I’m sorry. Something like that shouldn’t happen to you.”

  The spot on my cheek is not Nigel’s fault. It might, however, be his brother’s fault. But Nigel knows ghosts; he used to be addicted to swallowing them. And for a few minutes, he even had the entity in question inside him. He might be able to help, or at least have some information I can work with.

  “Then did it mark you in a way, when it was inside you?” I ask.

  “I didn’t think so, not at first. But there are memories that are just out of my reach, and every once in a while, an inappropriate impulse.” Nigel pulls his fingers through the shock of white hair on his head. “That’s why I had you clear Sadie’s house before dinner. It kept suggesting that a sprite side dish would be totally harmless.”

  So we’re both marked. Through all this, Malcolm sits to one side, arms braced on his thighs, hands clasped. His gaze never leaves the floor. I won’t condemn him, not yet. Besides, we may have other problems.

  “Have either of you heard of Ghost B Gone or Gregory B. Gone?”

  “Oh, sure,” Nigel says. “He has a web show. I watch it all the time.”

  Really? A web show? “What does he do?”

  “Ghost evictions, as he calls them. Streams them live over the net.”

  I pull a thermos of coffee from my bag. “So I don’t need to bribe you with this to do a little research for us?”

  Nigel grins. “You can always bribe me with coffee. What do you want to know?”

  “What he’s up to. He pulled into town this morning. I saw his van on Main Street.”

  “Seriously?” Nigel rubs his hands together and pulls his chair closer to his computer.

  Within moments, we land on Ghost B Gone’s YouTube page. He scrolls through videos and comments and both seem to go on forever. One video starts to play, and the tinny, squeaking music makes me wince.

  “Theme song,” Nigel says.

  “And you watch this?” Malcolm asks, stealing my question.

  “Well, yeah. It’s unintentionally hilarious. He doesn’t actually catch anything. He just thinks he does because the sprites making mischief get bored.”

  “You can’t see the sprites, can you?” I ask. Ghosts don’t show up in photographs, digital or otherwise—or so I’ve always believed.

  “No, you can’t, but if you know the telltale signs, it’s pretty obvious.” Nigel leans forward now. “Oh, look at this.”

  On the screen is an announcement for the next episode.

  Springside Township’s Haunted Shame.

  One family’s dream became their nightmare.

  On Halloween, Gregory and the Ghost B Gone team will rid this dream home

  of its uninvited and malicious visitors.

  Live streaming! 8 p.m. CST/9 p.m. EST

  The image of a house replaces the fading words. The Victorian is new construction. I recognize the forest green paint and white trim.

  Malcolm turns toward me and gives his head a shake. “This isn’t one of our clients.”

  “That’s because it isn’t really haunted,” I say. “Well, it is, but that’s not why it’s empty. The builders went bankrupt, the buyers backed out of the deal, and now I think the bank owns it. It just sits there. Kids sneak inside, and it’s attracted a trio of sprites who like to scare them. Halloween is their busy season.”

  “So no one’s dream has been denied?” Nigel says.

  I roll my eyes. “Hardly.”

  Malcolm looks at me. Despite everything that’s happened, something zings inside me. A connection, the thought we both have at the same time. Like he’s still my partner.

  “Want to investigate?” he says.

  “You read my mind.”

  * * *

  “Katy, we should talk.”

  Well, yes, we should, but it would only be one of those messy, emotional talks no one likes to have. I’m overflowing with feelings and hollow at the same time. But I can walk and think and investigate. I don’t want to spoil any of that. Because that? That feels right.

  Having Malcolm at my side still feels right. He’s all Ivory soap and nutmeg, with a hint of the saffron that he uses in his tea. It should be a crime for a man to smell this good.

  “We should take my truck,” I say, “in case we need supplies.”

  I keep an emergency stash in my truck—coffee, sugar, percolator, a little camp stove for brewing. The only thing I don’t have is half and half. Some ghosts insist on it; trust me, you don’t want to see what they do when they’re presented with the powdered stuff. Catching a ghost that tough requires a more deliberate approach.

  “Can we talk about what happened?” Malcolm follows me to the alley behind our building, where I park my truck.

  The thing is old and unsightly, and the mayor has asked that I not park it on Main Street. Malcolm’s cherry red convertible? That gets its own designated parking spot between our storefront and the deli.

  I climb into the driver’s side, put the key into the ignition, but don’t turn it. I wait until Malcolm’s seatbelt clicks.

  “Are we still partners?” I stare straight ahead, as if I’m speaking to the windshield.

  “Of course we are.”

  I shift slightly in my seat. He does the same.

  “Then can you tell me the truth, from the start? Because I don’t think I can be your partner if I don’t know that.”

  So maybe I do want the messy, emotional chat. I’m certain I won’t like what I hear. I also know I can’t physically turn the key and drive to investigate Ghost B Gone with all these doubts in my head.

  “I owe you that.” His voice is quiet, contemplative. “I owe you a lot of things. And it’s not so much that I lied. Well, not exactly. I just didn’t tell you the whole truth.”

  “And what is the whole truth?”

  “First? You saved me. I really did lose my job. Part of it was Nigel, but no one minded that, not when I was the top broker quarter after quarter. They threw bonuses at me, trips to Cancun. As long as Selena—”

  “Wait. Is Selena your ghost?”

  He nods.

  Of course. Malcolm’s ghostly girlfriend would have a glamorous name. I shake my head and try to shake off the irrational jealousy.

  “As long as she was around,” he continues, “things were fine. But when Nigel swallowed her, there went my streak.” He shrugs, palms skyward. “I was still a good broker, but I wasn’t spectacular—and people noticed. And they noticed enough that when things got tight and Nigel got out of hand, they fired me.”

  I’m torn between telling him I’m sorry and berating him for cheating at investing in the first place. But then, is it insider trading if your source isn’t alive?

  “I didn’t come to Springside with a plan, but I did come here on purpose.”

  This gets my attention. I scoot against the slippery vinyl seat as if moving a few inches closer guarantees I won’t miss a word.

  “Your grandmother has—had—a reputation beyond Springside. I knew she didn’t practice necromancy, but she was powerful. She could’ve been one of the best.” He sighs. “I was hoping for some advice.”

  “But you found me instead.”

  The grin he gives me is a slow, seductive thing. “I’m not disappointed by that.”

  For three full seconds, my head buzzes. I blow out a breath and steel myself.

  “I was at a crossroads. Catching ghosts with you was more fun than working at the brokerage, even if it didn’t pay nearly as well. And you...” He breaks off, rubs the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other. “I’d never met a necromancer as strong as you are.”

  “I’m not a necromancer,” I say.

  “But you could be. Don’t you see it, Katy? Part of the reason Springside is so haunted is you. Ghosts like you. You have an affinity for them. My grandfather would’ve called you a natural—”

  “Or maybe a supernatural?”

  Malcolm pauses, then throws his head back and laughs. Part of me mel
ts, just a little. Part of me is thrilled I can still make him laugh like that.

  “Yes,” he says, still chuckling. “That. I’ve never seen anything like you, and I can’t understand why you’ve never even heard of necromancy before now.”

  Well, I’ve heard of it, but that’s not what Malcolm means. But ever since he zoomed into town in his cherry red convertible, I’ve discovered there are many things about ghosts and ghost hunting I never knew.

  “I don’t understand why your grandmother never told you, at least.”

  The sad thing is, I don’t either.

  “Wait.” He sits up straight and strains against the seatbelt. “What about your parents?”

  “They died not long after I was born. I don’t remember them.”

  “How did they die?”

  I bite my lip. “Car accident.”

  “Huh. That’s a leading cause of death for necromancers.”

  “It is?” I shake my head because this? This is starting to get weird.

  “When there’s an imbalance, or when things go wrong—like with Nigel’s addiction—accidents happen. If we hadn’t intervened, at some point the ghosts would have decided to free themselves. Or sometimes, if a necromancer takes on a ghost that’s too strong …” He trails off. “Car accidents are good for that.”

  “So the ... host.” Is that what you call it? I’m not sure, but since Malcolm doesn’t contradict me, I continue. “Has to die in those cases?”

  “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.