“Oh, Katy-Girl, what’s happened?”
“I...” I don’t know what to say or how to explain what’s happened in the past twenty-four hours.
“You look so much like your grandmother right now, that same stoic expression. Every time I asked her to coffee, every time she chased down my ghost. It didn’t have to get romantic. I told her that ... how many times?”
He asks this last to the air, or possibly his ghost. Certainly I don’t know the answer.
“Don’t cut yourself off like she did,” Mr. Carlotta says. “No ghost is worth that.”
But would a whole town be worth it? I know now what it is my grandmother gave up. The love of this worthy man. A chance for a new life. She kept the vigil, kept herself lonely. That photograph of my grandfather on her bedside table—an image of all she’d lost and all she could never have.
My eyes burn with a quick spate of tears. My stomach ties itself in knots. I struggle to pull in a full breath. Granted, this last might be nothing more than Mr. Carlotta’s ghost.
And that ghost is the reason I’m here.
I try to work a smile onto my face. From the one Mr. Carlotta gives me, I know it’s a weak effort.
“Mr. Carlotta, would you mind?” I gesture toward the door. “I’d like to speak to your ghost for a few minutes.”
He nods. Without another word, he wheels his chair from the room. I shut the door behind him. For a moment, all I can do is press my palm against the wood. Then I reach for my thermos.
“No Tupperware today.” I unscrew the cap and pour the coffee into the thermos’s cup. “I just want to talk.”
Aromatic steam rises into the air. Other than the entity, this ghost is the oldest I’ve ever encountered. It does not suffer fools gladly and is difficult to draw out, although I know it must be in the vicinity of Mr. Carlotta’s Purple Heart. Technically, I suppose it haunts that rather than Mr. Carlotta. In this tiny room, it makes little difference.
By degrees, it oozes its way closer to the coffee. I add a touch more to increase the heat.
“I think it’s some of my best,” I say. “What do you think?”
In answer, the ghost drops onto the cup. The steam shimmers, creating a lopsided outline that looks as grumpy as this ghost often feels.
“I have a problem.” I’m on my knees in front of the side table where the coffee is sitting. Oddly, I don’t feel all that self-conscious speaking out loud to what is no more than glimmering air. Maybe it’s because I’ve known ghosts all my life. And maybe it’s time I got better acquainted.
“You’re old enough that I think you know about this entity. I think you might know what it’s called. Can you tell me that? I can’t promise that I’ll be the one to come back with more coffee, but someone will. You won’t be ... alone.”
I hold absolutely still, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. The ghost inches closer, the air around my face cooling as it draws ever nearer. Then, it’s as if I inhale it. It places its icy caress against my eyelids, my cheeks—making certain to circumvent the spot on my left—and my lips.
A word enters my head, but this isn’t Belinda’s small talk. Slowly, as if this ghost must pull each syllable from a great depth, I have my answer.
“Thank you,” I say, and my voice vibrates the shimmering air around me.
I ask Mr. Carlotta’s ghost for one last favor, but I leave before it can respond. I’m working on trust now, and I have many more ghosts to speak to and many more favors to ask.
By two in the afternoon, I’ve located every ghost, spirit, apparition, and sprite in Springside Township. I raced around the abandoned barn near the edge of town, a thermos above my head as the wild ghosts that live there dipped and dived into the steam. I held a coffee klatch in a gazebo attended by a dozen sprites, leaving behind floorboards far damper and stickier than when I arrived. I even sneaked into Chief Ramsey’s garden shed and offered a cup to the ghost that haunts the watering can. I’ve talked to them all.
Except one.
I’m tempted to return to the care facility and ask Mrs. Greeley if she’s sensed my grandmother lately. But perhaps this is something my grandmother can’t help me with. Maybe she’s known that all along.
My next stop is the green and white Victorian. I expect some sort of barrier to entry. Crime scene tape. A large No Trespassing sign. A closed circuit camera like the one on Main and Fifth. What I don’t expect is the bright yellow van with the black lettering and the riot of antennae in a gangly mess up on top. I don’t expect Gregory B. Gone to be leaning against his van, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze trained on the house like a despondent lover.
I pull the remaining thermos of coffee from the field kit and grab two Styrofoam cups before I leave my truck.
“I hope you like it with cream,” I say, balancing the cups on the hood of his van. “I have sugar, too, if you want it.”
He purses his lips and I take that as a no. A butterfly bandage covers a wound on his forehead. The lens of his glasses is still splintered. A strip of silver duct tape keeps the whole thing from tumbling off his face.
“Thank you.” He sips and then points the cup toward the house. “You know, that’s the first time I’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m not sure that thing really is a ghost. It’s something more.” And perhaps, in a way, something less as well.
“Always wanted to,” Gregory continues. “Everyone else senses the cold spots, hears the creaking stairs, freaks out and runs away. Me? I don’t feel a thing.”
I consider the man next to me, the van behind him proclaiming Ghost B Gone, and the naughty sprite whirling about his head.
“How do you eradicate ghosts if you can’t sense them?” I ask. At this point, I think that’s a fair question.
“Terese. She’s very ... open to all things supernatural.”
Yes. That turned out to be a problem, too.
“She broke up with me,” he adds.
Broke up? “I didn’t realize you two were a couple.”
“Yeah, that might have been part of it. She said I cared more about the show than I did about her.”
Well, he did leave her on the floor while he ranted like a madman about what had—and hadn’t—been caught on video. But then I let that entity take Malcolm. I maybe shouldn’t judge. Instead, I wave my fingers at the sprite, trying to get it to fly away.
“Go on, shoo,” I say under my breath.
“Ouch.” Gregory slaps his neck. “You’d think it would be too late in the season for mosquitos.”
Mission accomplished, the sprite dances off.
“What are you going to do now?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I wish I knew.”
Despite the defeat in his words, his expression shifts. Maybe it’s the scent of wood smoke that fills the air. A soft swoosh tickles my ears, the sound of a rake across dried oak leaves. The status quo, in Springside Township, can be an enticing thing.
“This isn’t a bad little town,” he says. “Maybe I’ll stick around. Nice place to raise kids.”
I refrain from pointing out that his girlfriend just broke up with him. I strive to keep my face bland, completely noncommittal. But something must bubble to the surface because he gives me a wry grin.
“Yeah ... another one of our problems. Or maybe it was just my problem. Maybe I’m the problem.” He drains the last of the coffee and then crushes the Styrofoam cup. “Thanks, Katy. You make a damn good cup of coffee.”
“Yes,” I say. “I know.”
* * *
I don’t enter the green and white Victorian until the bright yellow of the Ghost B Gone van has disappeared down the road. Once inside, I’m drawn to the living area. Does it matter where I do this? Possibly. Possibly not. In any case, my feet lead me to where I last encountered the entity.
Enough coffee remains in the thermos for two final servings. No Styrofoam for this. I pull out two blood red Japanese cups. I think they’re meant for tea, but I’m after elegance, not acc
uracy.
I fill each cup to the rim and set both on the mantelpiece. When I step back, my heel grinds a shard of glass into the wood floor. Then I stand in the empty space, paralyzed not so much by indecision—I’ve made up my mind—but by whether I’m being a coward in not saying goodbye to everyone. I’m not sure what will happen when I speak the name I hold in my mind, but I’m fairly certain nothing will be the same. I might not be the same.
I might not be here.
Eyes shut, I inhale deeply, then let it out with a whoosh. No sense in wasting time. The coffee’s getting cold.
“Momalcurkan.”
I stumble over the word. It feels awkward and unwieldy in my mouth, like it’s not a real word at all. Just to be perverse, I add:
“I have some coffee for you.”
The floorboards beneath my feet rumble. Plaster dust rains down. This time a spiderweb of cracks appears along the ceiling, marring its smooth surface. The bank will never be able to sell this place.
That inky mass oozes from the fireplace and creeps up the mantel until it reaches the coffee. The blob is nearly solid now, and the cups barely visible. The air grows stale. Around me, things flutter, wilder, more insistent than before. Bridal veils, every last one. White lace teases my peripheral vision until I look at it full on. Then, it vanishes.
The inky mass eases from the mantelpiece. One cup is overturned, but only a tiny stream of coffee flows onto the mantel. The other cup is completely empty. What sounds like an enormous sigh shakes the structure. The jangle of the pot and pan rack comes from the kitchen. The swinging door whooshes.
“Most delicious.”
The words echo in my head and all around me. In front of me, the inky blob transforms, once again taking the shape of a handsome man. In this particular case, that handsome man is Malcolm, or a facsimile of him.
“Brava, my dear. Brava. You’ve managed a trick most necromancers spend years trying to accomplish and never do. Certainly your grandmother never managed it.”
“I’m not half the ghost hunter she was,” I say.
“Perhaps not. Perhaps you are something more.”
“No,” I say. “I’m not.”
The entity regards me, its scrutiny silent and penetrating.
“It isn’t time yet,” it says.
My heart thuds, a furious beat in my chest. That proclamation gives me hope, just enough so I can speak my next words.
“I know. I want to make a trade.”
“What sort of trade would that be? I see no one here who might entice me. The humans in this place are puny and uninteresting.”
“Really?” I say. “No one? Not even me?” I turn in a slow circle like I’m a runway model, despite my hiking boots and coffee-stained jeans.
“Well, that’s another matter. What is it you have in mind, my dear?”
“Me for Malcolm, but I have conditions.”
“Of course you do.”
“He must be alive.”
A rumble shakes more plaster from the ceiling, but the sound isn’t threatening. Instead, it feels as if the entire house is chuckling and I’m a small child making ridiculous demands.
“Human and in one piece,” I add. “And everything he was before you took him as a willing sacrifice.”
“Including a liar?”
Three words, perfectly aimed. I press a hand against my stomach as if this thing has struck me there. I pull up everything I know about Malcolm, everything he is to me.
“He’s my business partner, and my friend, and I think I’ve maybe fallen in love with him.”
“No maybe about it, my dear. That he still exists means you have.”
He still exists. I keep my breathing shallow. I don’t want this thing to sense my relief.
“If he still exists, then we can trade. Right? If you return Malcolm, I’ll be your willing sacrifice.”
“You saw how he did it, what words he spoke?”
I nod.
The entity falls silent again, and everything around us with it. No birds sing outside the window. There’s no traffic on the street. The entity in this space has obliterated every last whiff of wood smoke and the sound of crisp leaves. It’s stale and cold and I wonder if this is my fate. Bed sheets. Bridal veils. The taste of metal against my tongue.
“Very well,” the entity says. “I accept.”
As it did with Terese, the entity peels away from the form that is Malcolm. He crumples to the floor, inert. I can only hope he is alive and breathing and everything else he should be. I don’t have the luxury to check. Instead, I must hold up my end of the bargain.
I step forward and spread my arms. I tip my head back. “I am your willing sacrifice.”
I hold still, mouth wide open, heart kicking up again. The entity oozes toward me, and my limbs lock in place as if I’ve been cast in bronze. A tendril inches toward my face, reaching for the cheek it marked.
“I’ve waited a long time for this, my dear.”
In that moment, a ghostly stream fills the living area. My mouth is still open, and the first ghost to plunge in is Mr. Carlotta’s. Oh, it’s fierce, leading the charge like a true warrior. The shock of its memories rattles me. Before I can make sense of any of them, another ghost follows, and then another. The dozen sprites from the gazebo dive in all at once. I can’t move, whether from the entity or all the ghosts inside me, I don’t know.
Still, they come. The wild ones from the abandoned barn. The grumpy ones who haunt the dark alleyways of town. Sadie’s two sprites.
An unearthly cry rends the air. The hold on my limbs loosens and I stumble backward. The ghosts catch me before I tumble to the floor.
“I can still take you, Katy,” the entity says.
But Springside Township has a great many ghosts. The thing reaches for me again, but the ghosts don’t stop. The entity’s hold weakens, but it’s still a match. Its power sputters, surges, sputters, surges.
With one last surge, it flows around me. I feel my existence falter, this world receding, and some other one rushing toward me. The light there is bright enough to blind, and yet it contains hidden recesses dark enough to wilt your soul. The house around me fades. I’m still standing in the living room, but I no longer feel the floor beneath my boots. And Malcolm? He’s no more than a hazy outline. It’s like looking at an old photograph in sepia. It’s a world that no longer exists.
But the ghosts won’t let me go. They keep me rooted in place until one last ghost dives into my mouth.
This is a ghost I know.
The entity’s screech pierces my ears. I’m frozen in place now, my body in a full-on ghost infestation. My sight grows dim, my eyelashes heavy with frost. I feel as if I’m sinking into a dark, icy pool of water. Before I sink all the way, before I lose the last bit of light, I hear my grandmother’s voice.
Goodbye, Katy-Girl. I love you.
* * *
“Katy? Katy, are you okay?”
The familiar voice pokes through the fog clouding my head, the sound of it low and familiar, although it lacks humor. And this is a voice I very much want to hear laugh. My eyelids flutter, my lashes no longer weighed down by ice.
When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is Malcolm. He’s here. He’s alive. I glance around and find the space warm, a hint of wood smoke in the air. Outside, a bird chirps. I push to sit up, and immediately he’s at my side, helping me. I inhale nutmeg and Ivory soap, and I think I might collapse again.
“It’s really you,” I say.
“It’s really me.” He gives his head a little shake as if he can’t believe he’s looking at me. “I don’t know what you did. I don’t know why, especially since—”
I press a finger against his lips. “That doesn’t matter.”
He takes my hand, squeezes it. “Actually, it does. Which is why I can’t ... I mean, I barely understand what happened. How—I mean, all the ghosts? Did you capture them?”
“No.”
“But how did they all—?”
“I just asked for their help.”
Malcolm gives me a blank stare as if I’ve uttered nonsense.
“You kept telling me how much they like me, right?” I say. “I decided to test that theory. I figured none of them wanted this entity around either and they’d be glad to help me get rid of it, one way or another. Also, I bribed them with coffee.”
For a moment, that blank stare remains. Then Malcolm throws his head back and laughs.
“You just ... asked them.” He shakes his head like I’ve done something impossible. “I think you’ve made a breakthrough in necromancy.”
“I keep telling you. I’m not a necromancer.”
“So you say. This?” He raises his hand, indicating the house and himself. “This proves otherwise.” His attention turns to my face—or rather, my left cheek. “Hold on,” he says, words softer now.
Brow furrowed, concentration absolute, he raises his hand to my face. He touches the spot on my cheek. I flinch inwardly, certain it will burn him again.
He doesn’t wince, doesn’t shirk. Instead, he uses a finger to scrape away at my skin. Something dislodges and falls to the floor. Between us, a blue disc shatters into a million tiny crystals. A second later, those million tiny crystals evaporate.
“Am I free?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper. I don’t want to hope, but find I’m doing just that.
“I think so.”
I sigh, and we’re so close that I sigh into his mouth. I inch closer so my lips might brush his, so I might sample that nutmeg. Malcolm pulls me in to him, one arm around my waist, a hand cradling the back of my head. When he kisses me, I taste the nutmeg and the apology and the thrill that we’re both here, both alive, both human.
All kisses end, it’s true. But this one? This one goes on for a very long time before it finally does.
* * *
I pour coffee into three bone china cups. The porcelain is so fine that the cups are nearly translucent. Wedding china. My grandmother’s. At least, I think it is. I never asked. Now, regret tugs at me that I didn’t.
I swallow back the sigh. I’m too full of caffeine to stay sad for long. I’m in Mr. Carlotta’s room, the last stop on my pilgrimage to thank all the ghosts of Springside Township. They all helped, but it’s this fierce warrior of a ghost who rallied them and led the charge. That deserves something special.
Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) Page 20
