Ghosters

by Corbitt, Diana;

  Kerry stretches her arms wide. “How many of them do you think have ever seen a real ghost?”

  “Probably none.” I take a sip of milk. “Do you still want to come over this afternoon? It’s Wednesday. We can watch Ghosters.”

  She grins. “Got any more chocolate chip cookies?”

  THE MOMENT KERRY steps into the living room her shoulders droop. “I thought we were going to have chocolate chip.”

  “Sorry, all out of chips. These are snickerdoodles.” I pick up the plate from the coffee table and turn like I’m heading back to the kitchen. “Okay, if you don’t want them . . .”

  “No, no, no. I’m sure they’re great.” She grabs two.

  That’s what I thought. I smile and set the plate back on the coffee table.

  Kerry flops onto the sofa. “Where is everybody?”

  “Upstairs. Dad’s taking a nap and Joey’s doing his homework.”

  “Well, turn the TV on. Ghosters is going to start any minute, and I don’t want to miss the theme song.”

  Soon we’re both giggling as we try to hum along with the opening music, but as the show gets going, we realize what experts we’ve become.

  “We had a lot cooler stuff happen to us,” Kerry grumbles. “Last year’s winning video was just a creepy shadow on the wall.”

  “Too bad Joey couldn’t record that ghost I saw in the wardrobe.” I lean forward, eyes glued to the screen. Tyson O’Seanesey and Billy Joe Francisco, the stars of the show, are creeping down a stone staircase somewhere beneath a two-hundred-year-old church.

  “We got the giggle on tape,” Kerry reminds me.

  “I know, but we can’t prove it’s a real ghost. It’s not like we can compare it to some database.”

  “What if there really was a database?” Kerry holds her hand to her ear as if she’s talking into a phone. “Hello, Miss Martinez? Good news. We checked your giggle against our G.G.D. That’s the Ghostly Giggle Database. And we have verified your giggle did indeed come from a ghost. Oh, you’re quite welcome. Have a lovely day.” She hangs up her imaginary phone and sits back, flashing a huge smile.

  “You’re hilarious.” I grab a pillow and smack her in the face.

  “Hey! At least we actually have a ghost.”

  “All right, but what good is that if we can’t prove it?”

  “Well, it’s not as though the ghost is going anywhere. It’ll probably be here longer than you. Relax. Watch the show.”

  During the commercial break, they play an announcement we’ve both heard a thousand times.

  There is still time to enter the Third Annual Ghosters Contest. Submit a recording of your paranormal experience by October 1st. Three finalists will be selected. First, second, and third place winners will be judged on the Ghosters’ own experiences when they visit each of the three locations. Hurry, because your submission could win you up to two hundred thousand dollars! Winners will be announced on October 31st on a special Halloween edition of Ghosters.

  Dad sure would love having all that money. I imagine him throwing his arms around me when I hand him one of those giant-sized checks. Sweet.

  Kerry stands up. “We can still win that contest.”

  “You really think so?” I rest my socked feet on the coffee table.

  She bends over me, hands on hips. “Theresa . . . are there ghosts in this house?”

  As if on cue, the TV remote slides across the coffee table.

  I pull my feet up onto the sofa. “Well . . . yeah, obviously.”

  Kerry grabs the remote and waves it at me. “See? It wants to be recorded. We’ll get something eventually, and when we do, it will be loads better than that stupid shadow figure from last year.”

  Pumped, I hop up on the sofa to look her in the eye. “You’re right. We can win.” I start bouncing. “We will win. And with all that money Dad can get the house painted. We can get this whole place remodeled.”

  Kerry joins me, and we hold hands as Grandma Carmen’s cushions spill onto the floor with each hop. “I’ll be able to buy all the ghost chasing equipment I want.” She grins. “All we have to do is get up to that third floor, and . . .”

  I stop jumping and flop down onto the sofa.

  “What?” She drops down beside me.

  “You know what. You’re on that third floor kick again.”

  “Well, why not? You had that dream. And the ghost locked you in there. And it touched your ankle. There’s something up there you need to see.”

  “Oh, come on,” I say in a tiny voice that’s almost a sob. “Last night my dad went nuts when I wasn’t even touching that door. What do you think he’ll do if he catches us up there? Plus, there’s that other ghost . . . the one that blocked my way with the trike.”

  “Ugh. Forgot all about that.” Kerry sighs and stretches out on the sofa, eyes on the ceiling. “My uncle Scott came over last night.”

  I stare out the window. “Awesome, is he a ghost who wants us to film him?”

  “No, he’s Aunt Amelia’s husband . . . and he’s not dead. I told him and my folks all about what we’ve been doing.”

  “And what did they think?”

  “Uncle Scott was really interested. He even offered to lend me his video camera.”

  Oh, the ghost-chasing uncle. “Why loan you another video camera? You already have one in your phone.”

  “Not like this one. It’s full spectrum. You can see in the dark with it.”

  I sit up and start piling the throw pillows back on the sofa. “That sounds expensive.”

  “It is. The only reason he’s loaning it to me is that he’s buying an even better one. He’s kind of obsessed.”

  More than you? I try not to smile. “Is he in some kind of ghost chasing club?”

  “Yeah, they travel around the country exploring creepy old buildings. Like your house.” She winks and sits up. “You know, if you tell your dad about the contest, he might change his mind about letting us explore up there.”

  I stand and gather up the rest of the scattered cushions. “Maybe, but don’t get your hopes up. From the way he was acting last night, there’s something he isn’t telling me about the third floor. Anyway, even if I do bring up the contest, he’ll probably say it’s a stupid waste of time.”

  As I bend to pick up a cushion next to Kerry’s foot, and she grabs my arm and pulls me onto the sofa. “You mean, like you were with that key?”

  “Yeah,” I nail her full on with a green satin cushion, “like I was with the key.”

  “Hey! No fair.” She throws the pillow back, but I’m already blocking.

  The battle continues off and on through the rest of the show.

  When it’s all over they play the contest announcement one more time. Kerry stands and glances at the staircase. “Time to go. Shame we can’t see what’s up there.” She takes a few steps toward the front door and turns back. “Hey, what do you think about me spending the night on Saturday? I’ll bring the new camera.”

  “Sure. There’s no reason the ghosts won’t be haunting some other part of the house.”

  CHAPTER 21

  THE DOORBELL RINGS on Saturday evening, and I peer down the main staircase to find Dad has already opened the front door. I hang back and watch from the hallway upstairs.

  “I think Theresa’s in the kitchen.” Dad tips his chin toward Kerry’s backpack, which is so stuffed, it looks like the zipper’s going to bust. “That looks heavy. Want me to take it upstairs for you?”

  Kerry blushes as she shrugs out of her purple sweat jacket. “That’s all right. I can do it.”

  “What? You think going up and down those stairs is going to wear this old guy out?” he grumbles, making his voice sound old and scratchy. “Jumping Jehoshaphat. I’m not that old.”

  Kerry’s brow crinkles as she watches him limp dramatically back into the living room. “I-I didn’t mean you were old, Mister Martinez.”

  Why doesn’t he do stuff like that with me?

  Dad spins back around
. “Sorry, Kerry, I was just messing with you. Go ahead. Take it up yourself.” He waves his arm in the direction of the stairs.

  Kerry heads up the stairs, looking a little confused, and I dash back to my room to hide in the closet. I wait, door slightly open, and spy on Kerry as she steps into the room. She sets her backpack on the chaise longue in the corner and stands there a few moments, just looking around. I’m about to jump out.

  “Hello?” No answer. “Hello. My name is Kerry. Is anyone here?”

  How can I pass this up? I cup my hands to my mouth and in my best ghostly voice call out, “Hellooooooo.”

  She shrieks and spins around, her eyes like golf balls. “Crikey, Theresa, I almost wet my knickers.”

  I laugh. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Come on downstairs and see what we’re having for dinner this time.”

  She sets her pack down and clutches her chest. “Hold on. I have to shove my heart back down my throat.” After a few deep breaths she starts for the door.

  I grin. “Well that’s rude.”

  She turns around. “What is?”

  “You haven’t said goodbye to the ghost.”

  SINCE KERRY ASKED for Mexican food the last time, I’ve decided to make enchiladas, an easy recipe that Mom had made more than once. Again, she helps with the salad. As I’m stirring the red sauce, I ask, “Did you bring that camera your uncle loaned you?”

  She looks up from slicing cucumbers. “Yeah, and it’s really cool, too.”

  “Why don’t you bring it down so I can see it?”

  “Your dad won’t mind?”

  “Naaah, not if we stay here in the kitchen. Go get it.”

  Hardly a minute passes when Kerry clomps back down the servants’ stairs and into the kitchen. But instead of the camera, she’s carrying my red spiral notebook. With a goofy grin, she grabs my arm, yanking the spoon away in mid-stir.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I ask, blinking at the red spray of sauce across the floor.

  She holds up the notebook. “Does this mean what I think it means?”

  “What? My science notes? Yes, Sir Isaac Newton hated apples.”

  “No, silly. That you’ve decided to explore the third floor.”

  I back away from my crazy friend and tear off a handful of paper towels. “What are you talking about?”

  “This,” she holds up the key to the third floor, “was sitting on top of this.” She waggles the notebook in front of my face.

  “Huh?”

  The notebook is folded open, and she holds it steady for me to read. The page is blank except for one word written in shaky blue letters, two inches tall: LOOK.

  The spoon falls from my hand, splattering more sauce across the linoleum. “I-I didn’t write that.”

  “What? I thought . . .” Kerry looks from the key, to the paper, then back at me. “They were sitting right there in the middle of your desk.”

  I hold my finger to my lips and run down the hall to check on my dad. Satisfied that he’s still parked in front of his flat screen, I race back into the kitchen. Kerry’s already pulled her inhaler from her back pocket. She’s barely finished breathing in her asthma medicine as I grab her arms.

  “It was the ghost,” I squeal.

  “Obviously, it wants you to go up there.”

  “Wait.” I stare up at Kerry, eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a trick to get back at me for pranking you upstairs, is it?”

  She shakes her head hard.

  My brain feels like it’s doing donuts in my skull. How can I ignore this? As we stand in the middle of the kitchen staring at each other, Joey coasts in carrying an empty glass. He steps past us to the refrigerator and pulls a tray of ice from the freezer. “Why is there blood all over the floor?”

  AT DINNER, ALL I can think of is that word scribbled on my notepad.

  Look.

  It has to be a ghost. I mean, Dad and Joey don’t even know about the dream, and even if they did, neither of them are the type to play pranks. So if it wasn’t me and it wasn’t Kerry . . .

  We finish eating around seven, and Dad goes off to watch his baseball pregame show. Since I always make Joey help with the dishes, he looks a little suspicious when I give him the night off. It isn’t until Kerry explains that we’re actually doing him a favor that he agrees, and we have the kitchen to ourselves. That one-word message has changed everything, and Joey can’t know about it. He’s such a blabbermouth.

  “So, now that you’ve had time to think,” Kerry says as she dries the dinner plate I just washed, “any opinions on who might have left that key? Your mum, maybe?”

  “Maybe. But it could just as well by my grandma, or even Grandpa Joe.”

  “Hopefully, we’ll find out when we go up there tonight.” She raises an empty glass as if making a toast. “Here’s to going to the third floor and recording the best evidence ever.”

  “But what if my dad catches us? And what if the floor really is dangerous?”

  “Take a breath, Theresa.” Just like she did in the basement, Kerry puts her arm around my shoulder and whispers in my ear, “We’ll take every precaution, I promise. Your dadwon’t even know we’ve been up there. Besides, how big a secret can he be keeping? It’s not as if there’s some mad uncle chained to the wall up there. Who’d have been feeding him all these years?”

  “I still don’t feel good about this, Kerry.” I wave off the idea with a soapy hand and go back to washing the dishes.

  “Come on. This is a huge house, and we’ll be two floors up. Like you said, he’ll never bother us during a baseball game. Don’t you want to know what that dream was about?”

  “Obviously, I do, but we just can’t. Something will happen. The Giants will hit a grand slam and he’ll come running up to tell everybody.”

  “Blast.” She strides over to the table and drops into a chair, elbows on the table, chin on her hands. “There has to be some way to do this without getting caught.” The kitchen is so quiet I can hear the baseball commentator on Dad’s TV from way across the house. I go back to scrubbing out the enchilada pan.

  After a bit, Kerry stands up and pushes her chair back under the table. “I have a plan.”

  At the sight of her grinning face, a combination of dread and excitement flows through me, and I swallow. “Wha-what is it?”

  CHAPTER 22

  EVEN THOUGH IT’S a weekend and we’re allowed to stay up late, Kerry and I say good night to Dad at ten thirty. But sleep isn’t in our plans. We’re heading up to get ready for what we hope will be our most exciting ghost-chasing adventure yet. If things go our way, we’ll end up with a video worthy of the Ghosters two-hundred-thousand-dollar prize.

  We reach the door to my room, and I leave Kerry and run down the hall to the bathroom. She’s sitting on my bed when I get back, and frowns at the sight of the yellow bath towel I’m holding.

  “What’s that for?” she asks.

  “Watch this.” I shut the door and stuff the towel into the gap beneath.

  “Don’t tell me . . . you’re a smoker.”

  “What? No! It’s not to keep cigarette smoke in. I just don’t want my dad to notice the light coming from under the door. We’re supposed to be sleeping, you know.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Brilliant. You’re quite the sneak, aren’t you? Now, all we have to do is wait until he goes to bed. After that we’ll slip up to the third floor like two little mice.”

  I lean over her, hands on hips. “And we’re waiting until we’re one hundred percent sure he’s asleep, too. No guessing.” The last thing I need is him catching us up there.

  “Fine, fine.” She pushes me away and heaves her bulging backpack up onto the bed. “Are you still sure you don’t want Joey to come along? He really is a talented cameraman.”

  “Are you kidding? Rules are rules with him. He’d tell Dad for sure.”

  “I suppose so. You know him better than I do.” She reaches into her pack and places the EMF meter, the EVP recorder, and a small silver flashlig
ht side by side on the bed.

  I set my own flashlight beside hers. “I put fresh batteries in it.”

  “Good. These all have freshly charged batteries too.”

  “Yeah, but that won’t matter if the ghost decides to drain them. Why can’t it just take whatever energy it needs from the air? Isn’t that why rooms turn cold when they’re around? The ghost using up all the heat?”

  “That’s what I’ve been told. Perhaps draining batteries takes less effort. Anyway, I may have a solution for that.” She unzips the small front pocket of her backpack and reaches in. This time she pulls out two clear plastic sandwich bags, which she holds up proudly. “We’re going to bribe the ghosts.”

  What the heck? “With empty bags?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, what are we going to fill them with, cookies?”

  “No, with treats they’ll appreciate even more.”

  She opens a different pocket of her backpack. I’m even more confused as she pulls out two big handfuls of batteries ranging from AAA to D size.

  “There,” she says after separating the batteries into two equal piles. “Some for you and some for me.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “It’s simple,” she says, handing me one of the bags. “You zip your batteries into this, then tuck the top of the bag into your waistband.”

  “Oh, I see. The part with the batteries hangs out so the ghost can see them. It drains the energy it needs from those instead of from the batteries in our equipment.” I give her a high-five. “Smart thinking.”

  “Thanks, and now . . .” Again, she reaches into her pack.

  I feel like I’m watching a magic act. What’s she going to pull out now?

  “Surprise!” She raises her chin proudly. “It’s a full-spectrum HD video camera. My uncle gave it to me. And not on loan, either. To keep. It’s an early Christmas and birthday present.”

  “That means you won’t have to use a flashlight anymore. You can see in the dark with that thing, right?”