Karma Moon—Ghost Hunter

by Melissa Savage

  “You mean he doesn’t even know yet?”

  “I feel like he’s getting a sense of it,” she assures me.

  I laugh at that one.

  We watch the snack bar boy as he waits on the family of five in front of us. He’s tall, with long black hair hanging out of a knit skullcap, and has pale white skin and more eyeliner than the models in Manhattan coming from a photo shoot. He’s wearing a long-sleeved Fun City T-shirt pushed up on his elbows, displaying two fake sleeve tattoos. They have to be fake because he can’t be much older than I am and everyone knows you can’t get a tattoo until you’re eighteen.

  I’m getting a crescent moon.

  It’s my signature sign.

  Mags is getting the SKIP A STRAW, SAVE A TURTLE slogan.

  “He’s more my type than yours anyway,” I tell her.

  “How do you figure that?”

  I consider the boy and his eyeliner.

  “He’s…brooding,” I say. “Brooding is more my style. Shirtless is more yours.”

  “Fine, but be cool for once,” she warns. “You know how you get.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.

  “You know, the weirdness and all.”

  “Define weirdness,” I tell her, pushing up my horn-rims at the bridge.

  “Ah…totally awkward and completely embarrassing,” she informs me.

  “Next,” the boy calls.

  She gives me a nudge forward and says, “You’re on.”

  The boy looks at me and our eyes lock.

  “Can I take your order?” he asks.

  I suck air.

  Fear. Panic. Sweat.

  WHAT-IFS

  Sooooo awkward.

  Mags gives me another nudge.

  I take a giant step up to the counter, flicking my hair like the girls in the shampoo commercials do. Except my hair isn’t shiny and wavy and blond, it’s more limp and dull and the same brown as the smiling poop emoji. And instead of the slow-motion bouncing locks, a big clump lands in my mouth instead of all flowy and perfect down my back.

  I spit a wad of hair from between my lips, straighten my glasses and say, “ ’S up.”

  His eyebrows crinkle and he’s all, “Huh?”

  WHAT-IFS

  Abort! Abort! Abort!

  That’s when my heart starts beating behind my eyes and my mouth feels like there’s too much saliva inside, creating a serious spit tsunami warning.

  WHAT-IFS

  WARNING: Spit storm imminent.

  Take cover.

  Mags to the rescue.

  “So yeah, we’ll have two corn dog baskets, extra ketchup and…um…ah, oh, right…um, two Fun City Blue Raspberry Slushies. And if I see a plastic straw, we’re going to have a serious problem,” she warns with a pointer finger. “Get me?”

  “Oh…um, it’s a whole turtle thing,” I tell him, pulling dollar bills out of my jeans and handing them to him.

  He looks confused.

  “The turtles are dying,” Mags says. “Dying. From straws.”

  His eyes narrow and then he says, “Well, not from our straws. We don’t even have them.”

  “Good, then,” she says. “We won’t have a problem.”

  I sense an internal eye roll on his part, even though I don’t actually see it as he pushes buttons on the register.

  “Eleven dollars and fifty-one cents,” he tells us.

  I hand him the money and watch him count the bills.

  His name tag has a piece of masking tape covering where the first name should be, with three letters scribbled in black ink instead.

  NYX Brown

  “So, is that your actual name?” Mags asks him, with her elbow on the counter and her chin in her hand. “Nyx Brown?”

  He stares at her.

  She points to his name tag. “That,” she says. “I’ve never heard of anyone named Nyx before. Is it short for something?”

  “Here, you gave me too much,” he tells me, handing me back two bills.

  I feel my cheeks burn and say, “Oh, right…sorry,” while I shove them back in my pocket.

  WHAT IF

  forgetting basic math skills is the

  first sign of early-onset dementia?

  “Sooooo, anyway…yeah…we’re with the Netflix crew,” Mags goes on. “Out to film the hauntings at the Stanley Hotel.”

  Nyx is stuffing money into the correct compartments of the register when he freezes mid-stuff and stares at us again.

  “You guys are with Totally Rad Productions?” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I mean…it’s my dad’s company and everything, but like yeah. I help and stuff…like you know, doing the research and answering phones and whatnot. I mean, I don’t sing the hold music or anything like that…even though he wanted me to, but I was all like that’s bizarre…and like who’s Barry Manilow anyway—”

  WHAT-IFS

  Please stop talking…

  “What do you know about it?” Mags asks him.

  “Are you kidding? Small towns.” He shrugs, pulling coins from the different compartments and slamming the drawer with his hip. “There are no secrets in small towns, everyone knows everything and everyone knows everybody. Forty-nine cents is your change.”

  “So, I suppose you know about the hauntings and all that’s going on at the Stanley, then?” Mags asks him.

  “Who doesn’t?” he says.

  “So then you must know all about Mr. Honeycutt?” I ask.

  He raises his eyebrows at me and leans closer. So close I can tell you that his breath smells like sweet raspberry Slushie.

  “I already know about Mr. Plum and his polka-dot boxers,” he whispers.

  I suck air. “But that just happened.”

  He shrugs. “I told you.”

  There is this majorly cool vibe about this kid, and when he looks at you, his brown eyes really see you. I mean really see you. Not to mention his eyelashes go on for days.

  “Are you going to take our order, son?” the man in line behind us complains.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say, stepping aside.

  “Here.” Nyx hands me a plastic card with a big six on the front of it. “I’ll call your number when your order is ready.” And then in a loud and robotic voice meant more for his manager than for us, he says, “Thank you for choosing Fun City as your family’s entertainment center for fun. You can pick up your beverages on the side counter.”

  “Thanks…I mean, you’re welcome…I mean…six, it rhymes with Nyx, so I’ll definitely remember—”

  Mags curls an arm around mine and yanks me in the direction of the tables. “We’ll be over there,” she tells Nyx, and then whispers to me, “What’s wrong with you?”

  I push my glasses up. “You mean besides the usual?”

  “I mean, why are you rhyming?”

  “You know how sometimes when you get super nervous you just start rhyming?”

  She blinks at me. “No,” she says flatly.

  “You’re saying that’s never happened to you?” I ask.

  “I’m saying it’s never happened to anyone.”

  She pulls me toward the picnic tables, all of them with big red umbrellas that have the words FUN CITY written on them. I can hear the man who was behind us in line step forward and spout out his order.

  “We’ll take two chili cheese dogs, two corn dogs, four orders of fries and four churros, please,” the man says while Nyx punches the buttons on his cash register.

  “Let’s just sit here,” Mags says, choosing a table close to the counter. “Then you can stare at the freakazoid all you want.”

  “Did you see his eyelashes?” I breathe.

  “Nope,” she says, slipping into a red plastic chair. “But I saw his wris
ts. Fake tattoo sleeves? Check.”

  “I think he’s probably the coolest boy I’ve ever met,” I tell her.

  “You would.”

  “Even cooler than Skyler Cade,” I gush. “He’s cute, he’s smart, and he doesn’t seem stuck-up at all.”

  “He’s all yours. I officially retract my infinite dibs for that one.”

  “What do you think his story is?” I ask, pulling out a chair next to hers.

  She wrinkles her nose as she considers him, slurping up sips of her strawless Blue Raspberry.

  Slurp.

  Swallow.

  Consider.

  Slurp.

  Swallow.

  Consider.

  “I’m going with divorced parents, misunderstood annnnnd…middle child syndrome,” she says.

  “Thank you, Dr. Finkelman Junior,” I tell her.

  “Well,” she says. “Got to be Goth, right? I mean, what’s up with the black eyeliner? And I’m sorry, but black fingernail polish? That is sooo last year.”

  “Yeah, but what is Goth…really? I mean, what does it mean to be a Goth?”

  “It’s not a Goth, it’s just Goth,” she informs me.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  She slurps again. “Pretty sure,” she says.

  “Well, what does it mean?” I ask her.

  “No clue.” She shakes her head. “Ask Siri. She knows everything.”

  I pull my cell phone from my back pocket. “Siri? What is a Goth?”

  Nyx’s voice comes over the loudspeaker before Siri has a chance to answer.

  “Fun City order number six is ready,” he calls into a microphone attached to the counter. “Fun City number six…your order is ready.”

  I hold up my plastic number to show Mags. “That’s us,” I say.

  “Ah…I remember.” She slurps again. “Nyx rhymes with six.”

  I give her a good glare.

  She laughs. “Just kidding. Good luck. And just remember…be yourself.”

  I stand and stare at her. “That’s the worst advice you’ve ever given me.”

  WHAT-IFS

  True dat.

  “You’ll be fine,” she says. “Just relax, say as few words as possible, and whatever you do, don’t rhyme anything. Last time I checked, you’re not Dr. Seuss.”

  “Got it,” I tell her, eyeing the long journey to the counter. “I’m going in.”

  I take a breath and dart in his direction.

  Lucky for me, I make it without a single major embarrassing incident. Nyx is standing at the counter waiting for me with a red tray filled with square paper baskets spotted with grease stains. I hand him my plastic number, making sure to keep my mouth closed and curl my fingers around the edge of the tray.

  I gaze up at him.

  He has light brown freckles on his nose.

  “I’m going to give you some advice,” he tells me.

  WHAT-IFS

  I feel a rhyme coming on.

  I pull the tray toward me without saying a word, but Nyx doesn’t let go. Instead he leans closer toward me over the counter and says something like “You better watch your back.”

  I glance down at the corn dog baskets overflowing with fries and then back up at him.

  “Wiiiiiith…the corn dogs?”

  “No,” he says. “Paranormal investigation isn’t a joke. I know this is a first for your film crew. You’re clearly not professionals.”

  “Oh, right, well, that’s no big deal,” I tell him. “We have a ghost doctor with us. He has a badge and everything, I saw it—”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “So am I,” I tell him. “It’s a silver one.”

  “Paranormal investigation must be handled properly or else.”

  I swallow. “Or else what?”

  “You can open yourself up to evil spirits within the space, or they can even attach to you personally.”

  “A-attach to you personally?” I say.

  This can’t be good for my what-ifs.

  “Just whatever you do, make sure you contact me if you plan on doing some kind of séance. You know, like with a Ouija board. Amateurs can get themselves in real trouble. There are rules with those things.”

  “T. S. Phoenix didn’t say anything about any Ouija boards.”

  “T. S. Phoenix doesn’t normally conduct séances,” Nyx tells me. “He’s all about the science.”

  “What about Tally?”

  “She never uses a Ouija board either,” he says. “She believes they can be dangerous when it comes to unwanted spirits.”

  “Madame Drusilla said something about evil spirits at the ghostly meet-and-greet.”

  Nyx nods. “I know.”

  I put my hands on my hips and sigh. “Is there anything you don’t know?” I ask him.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I don’t know whether or not you have a Ouija board. Do you or don’t you?”

  “Nope,” I tell him. “We definitely don’t have one of those.”

  That’s when Mags comes up behind me and puts a chin on my arm and holds out her empty Slushie cup toward Nyx. “Do you give free Fun City Blue Raspberry refills?”

  “Sorry, I’m officially on my break,” he tells her.

  “He’s talking about a Ouija board,” I tell her.

  “So, you’re saying you can’t refill my Slushie if you’re on break?” Mags demands.

  “Do you have a cell phone?” he asks me, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s your number?” he says with his thumbs poised over the tiny keyboard.

  Mags gives me a kick under the counter.

  I tell Nyx my number and watch as he types.

  “Let me know if you need help,” he tells us. “I can provide you with some backup technical séance support.”

  “Backup what?” I ask, while Mags takes a fry out of a basket and stuffs it in her mouth.

  “Séance support,” he says again.

  I look at Mags. “I told him, we aren’t doing anything like that.”

  “So, what’s with all the eyeliner?” Mags asks him with her mouth full of fry. “You Goth or something?”

  “No.”

  “Emo?”

  “No,” he says. “I’m an illusionist.”

  Mags and me look at each other and then back at Nyx.

  “Pardon me?” Mags says.

  “I’m into magic. You know, illusion; endurance or transfiguration tricks…that kind of thing. You ever hear of Harry Houdini?”

  “Oh, right, that prince who quit and moved to Canada,” I say.

  “No.” Mags shakes her head. “Different Harry.”

  “Oh, right,” I say. “He’s that One Direction singer.”

  Mags nods. “Right,” she says. “That’s him.”

  “Wrong again, that’s Harry Styles,” Nyx says. “Harry Houdini is like the greatest illusionist of all time. He’s the actual father of magic.”

  “So, like magic magic?” Mags says. “Like abracadabra pulling-a-rabbit-out-of-a-hat magic?”

  “Rabbits are amateur time,” Nyx tells us.

  “Serious?” Mags asks, grabbing another fry. “So, do something magical.”

  “Like what?” he asks, reaching behind my ear and pulling out a quarter.

  “Whoa!” I say, grinning big. “That’s so cool!”

  “Keep it.” He hands it to me, slipping it into my open palm.

  “Thanks!” I say, holding it tight in my hand.

  Mags snorts.

  “Twenty-five cents?” she says. “I’m sorry, but I’d be way more impressed if you found a twenty back there. It cost seven bucks just to ride the bumper boats.”

  “Young
man? Can we order, please?” a woman calls from the counter on the other side, tapping an angry running shoe on the cement.

  “You’d better get back to work,” I tell him, picking up the tray from the counter. “We don’t want you to get in trouble. Thanks for the…um, you know…ghost advice and everything.”

  He nods.

  “So, where do we get one of those Ouija boards?” Mags calls after him. “It’s that game for spirit contact, right?”

  “It’s not a game,” he warns her.

  “Don’t they sell it in the toy department?” she asks.

  “That doesn’t mean it’s a toy.”

  “Ah…I’m pretty sure it does,” she says.

  “I’ll text you my number later,” he tells me. “But I’m telling you…don’t fool around with evil spirits.”

  I stare directly into his dreamy eyes and say, “We will definitely heed your warning, Nyx Brown.”

  “Charlie,” the manager calls over to us. “There are people waiting.”

  “I got to go,” Nyx tells us, turning back toward the register.

  “Hold up,” Mags says with a snort. “Your name is…Charlie Brown?”

  He gives her a glare over his shoulder and snaps, “Oh, so what?”

  One thing I know about Mags is that she doesn’t heed warnings from anyone.

  Not even ones about evil spirits.

  Which is the exact reason why she dragged me into Toy Mountain on West Elkhorn Avenue to get a stupid Ouija board on our way home from Fun City.

  Minus one plastic bag.

  And that was only after an embarrassing confrontation with the store owner about contributing to the death of all the turtles in all the seas.

  But to her credit, Mags may have saved at least one reptilian life.

  Now we’re sitting on the floor of room 217.

  The room.

  Mr. Ozgood Honeycutt’s room.

  And it’s mad creepy, too.

  I asked Crystal Mystic if conducting a séance in room 217 to call up the dead ghost of Mr. Honeycutt is the biggest mistake of my life.

  CRYSTAL MYSTIC

  FORTUNE IS NOT SMILING ON THIS.