Pale Stranger (PALE Series)

by Mac Flynn

  "I'm a college student, Mom, I have that with me twenty-four seven." I often forgot it in my car. "And I'll call as soon as I get back from the house."

  "Promise?"

  "Promise."

  I ended the call and sighed. I hated to admit it, but Mom was right, this was a dangerous undertaking. The big problem was I was a little desperate on cash. I had a big rent payment coming in a month along with a new semester of book-buying that was sure to drive me into poverty, and my pay at the diner couldn't cut through soft cheese, much less these large expenses. If I went without food I could make things work, but my body refused to die for my college tuition.

  There was always the option of asking my mom for money, but my pride wouldn't allow it. No matter how much I'd begged Pride, it always said no; damn stubborn thing. That meant my last hope was this unusual offer from an even stranger man to drive out to his place far in the country to see about the unknown job. What could go wrong?

  That evening I got into my car that smoked so bad it looked like it ran on coal, and drove out to Mr. Benson's house. Thanks to Google maps I knew where I was going, otherwise people would've seen my skeleton driving by still searching for that damn road. I took so many lefts and rights that I was cross-eyed and upside down by the time I hit the final road up to the place. When the house came into view I was pretty impressed, and horrifically terrified. It was an old Victorian mansion complete with ghoulish gables, ominous eves, and spooky steps. The lawn around the house was well-kept and a circular driveway ran up to the front porch. There was a garage on the left side of the house with a heavy cloth that ran from the exterior door of the house to the garage side door. I parked at the steps, but made sure not to hit the parking brake just in case I needed to make a quick getaway.

  I stepped out of the car and was surprised when lightning didn't ominously flash across the sky behind the house. The stairs up to the porch squeaked like they needed oil, and an old Marley knocker sat in the center of the door. I gingerly grabbed the knocker and banged it against the entrance. The noise echoed through the hollow-sounding house, and in a minute I heard a quick tapping noise. It grew louder and faster the closer it came to me like a bomb about to go off, and I was just about to duck for cover when the door swung open. Rather than a bomb there stood a bombshell in the form of a beautiful woman. She was average height and a mathematical improbability of 36-24-36. A lot of women would have killed to have those measurements, making a lot of women murderers. Fortunately for this woman I was not one of them, and I smiled at her. "Hi, um, is this where Mr. Benson lives?"

  She looked me over with the only displeasing part of her: narrow, suspicious eyes set behind a pair of small, square glasses. I knew we were going to be good friends when she sneered at me, and her voice sounded like she'd rather let the dogs loose on me than talk to me. "You must be Miss Angel," she spat out.

  I wiped the spittle off my face and my smile got a little thinner. "Miss Angel is too formal. Please call me Miss Calhoun."

  My joke fell flatter than a buttered piece of toast dropped onto the floor. "Follow me, and remember to close the door."

  She probably thought I was born in a barn, which showed how little she knew about me; I was born in a tool shed. I stepped inside and saw that the decor was done up in late eighteenth century Dracula, complete with no mirrors. On my left and right were the dining and living rooms. In front was a long hallway that stretched to the back of the deep house, and beside the hallway rose a narrow staircase with a landing to reach the second floor.

  Miss Measurements led me upstairs where the hall curved back to run in line with the long hallway on the bottom floor. We stopped in front of a door that looked like every other one, and she knocked. "Mr. Benson, your-" she glanced at me with venomous snake eyes, "-guest is here." With this woman I felt like a meal waiting to be eaten.

  "Bring her in," came the familiar voice of the pale stranger. I almost bowled the woman over to get at him; I preferred Dracula over this She-Beast any day. At least he'd make love to me before eating me. The room we stepped into was a bedroom done up in a spartan style complete with Greek vases on a shelf. The bed sat opposite the door beside a window, and Mr. Benson lay under the covers with a smile on his face. "Good evening."

  I wanted to ask if he drank wine, but the situation was uncomfortable enough with viper lady beside me. "Um, good evening. Nice place you have here. Must be popular with the trick-or-treaters."

  The woman rolled her eyes, but Benson chuckled. "It would be very popular if there were any children this far out." He glanced to the woman. "You may leave us now, Miss Sievers." She nodded, cast another wishful look of death-and-horrible-pain at me and left us alone, taking some of the tension with her. I breathed a sigh of relief loud enough for the sharp-eared man to hear me. "Does she make you uncomfortable?" he asked me.

  She'd make a psychopath nervous, but I had to act professional in this very unprofessional room. "A little," I replied.

  "I must admit she isn't very friendly, and as my personal secretary and diplomat I need someone more personable who isn't afraid of both my opponents and me."

  I thought I heard a job opening in his words. "Personal secretary? Is that the job you want me for?"

  He nodded. "Yes. As you can see I'm not a very photogenic person myself and need a face to act as a go-between for me to the outside world."

  "But you were out last night," I pointed out.

  "A doctor's appointment, and you can see the success." He gestured down to his sheet-covered self. "But I don't believe you came here to discuss my medical matters. How are you with in writing down notes?"

  "I've caught several pencils on fire from taking orders," I replied.

  He chuckled. "This I have to see." He grabbed a pen and pad beside on the nightstand and held them out to me. I hesitated, but he wasn't insulted. "It's fine, these don't bite."

  "Have you ever had a paper cut?" I countered, but took the items.

  "Now try to write down everything I say." He spoke a few lines about stocks and bonds, and I took them down as well as I could manage. "Now let me see what you wrote." I handed back the pad, and a puzzled expression swept across his face. "I can't read this at all."

  I shrugged and smiled. "It's my own shorthand for taking orders. No cryptographer or cook has ever deciphered it."

  "So that's why waitresses always yell the orders," he mused with a grin. "Read back the contents and let me see how well you wrote down my words." I took back the pad and repeated the lines. He gave a satisfied nod. "Very good. Now do you know anything about investing or stocks?"

  "You do remember where we met, right?"

  He shrugged. "It was worth asking, but I suppose this will keep you from-" There was a sudden noise outside the bedroom door. Benson performed a miracle when he flung aside the covers and crossed the room in a few strides. He swung open the door to find nobody there, but he stuck out his head to check the hall.

  I checked my watch. Ten past eight. "I though the union rules said spooks couldn't wander until midnight," I mused.

  "They walk these halls even during the day..." he muttered. He closed the door and turned to me with a smile. "But when can you start?"

  I held up my hands. "I just serve food that makes ghosts. You're going to have to call someone else for the extermination."

  He crossed over to me and grabbed my shoulders. His warm hands burned holes through my sleeves and into my skin; that was a new shirt, too. "But you're just who I need to help me. No one else will do."

  I blinked in bewilderment. "Do what?"

  "Your new job with me here as my personal secretary," he explained. "When can you start?"

  "First you need to explain your miraculous recovery," I replied. I jerked my head toward the bed. "You were in invalid one minute, and the next you looked like Jessie Owens. What's the deal?"

  He sighed and released me. "A conservation of energy, a focus of the mind, and-"

  "-and being really angry at some
one," I finished. "That noise we heard was Miss Whats-Her-Name, wasn't it?"

  He regretfully nodded. "Miss Constance Sievers."

  "Her name is right. She's constantly around," I quipped.

  "Yes, I'm afraid I can't-" he didn't get to finish his sentence because his legs buckled and he dropped forward. I caught him before he ate floor and let him down the rest of the way. He had a shaky, wry smile on his face. "I'm sorry you had to see that. A consequence of my over-exertion just now."

  "I've seen worse," I assured him. He raised an eyebrow in question. "Let's just say it involved alcohol and a ping pong paddle."

  "I shall ask no more questions, just help me up to the bed," he promised. I hefted one of his arms over my shoulder and dragged his limp body onto the bed, where he sat up but leaned his right shoulder against the wall. His ghostly pallor was as white as bleach and not nearly as useful in cleaning. "Now you see why I am in need of a strong, young, helpful woman."

  "You're in need of a better doctor. If this is what happens after every visit then the one you're going to is an aspiring murderer," I told him.

  "Perhaps, but I need a set of clear eyes to tell the frauds from the real ones. I don't trust Miss Sievers' eyes any longer, but I believe I can trust yours." He caught me in those deep pools of blue. I felt myself slipping into them, which was very unsafe without a life jacket. "Will you take on the job? I'm begging you to help me."

  I held up my hand to stop him from saying any more; if he did I'd fall for his blue eyes hook, line, and wriggling fish. "First, mind if I ask a few questions before I remove Miss Scary-Lady from her position?"

  He smirked and gave a nod. "Go ahead."

  "First off, how much is the pay?"

  "In a year's time you could probably buy the diner I found you working at."

  I tried not to squeal with joy. "Sounds fair enough, what about the hours?"

  "What are your current hours?" he asked me.

  "From the butt-crack of dawn until closing time hits, whether I've collapsed by then or not," I told him.

  "I refuse to believe the day exists before noon, and I go to bed when my health forces me to," he explained to me. That worked with my class schedule; I was done before noon to work at the diner.

  "And I work all those hours?"

  "No, only four of them, and a few odds and ends when the need arises."

  "Like it did just now?" I wondered, and he nodded. "Anything strange and kinky you need me to do?"

  He laughed and shook his head. "None that I can think of. Did you have something in mind?"

  "Plenty, but let's keep my mind out of the gutter while we're talking business. It dirties up the verbal contract," I replied.

  "Then we have a deal?" He was as desperate as a teenager on his first night in the Paris nightlife. I couldn't say no to a man in such desperate need to rid himself of such a woman as Miss Sievers, but I didn't want to dive into a pool until I was sure there weren't any sharks; I didn't want to spend the rest of my days with the nickname of Lefty.

  "We have a deal, but on one condition," I answered.

  He stiffened. "And that would be?"

  "I get a trial run. At the end if I'm not happy then I go back to work at the diner," I explained to him.

  Benson furrowed his brow, but nodded. "Very well, but how will you get away from your current job?"

  I shrugged. "I'm up for a vacation." Seven years behind on a vacation; I'd never taken one except when I was sick, which didn't happen often. "My boss will miss me dearly, but I'm sure Sheila won't blow the place up while I'm gone."

  "Sheila?" he wondered.

  "The girl you met last night. She's Sheila," I replied.

  "Ah, I see." He looked me over with a contemplative gaze.

  I glanced down at myself to see if there was a spaghetti stain; it was all clear. "What? I have a booger hanging out or something?"

  Benson shook his head. "No, but there's one very important question I'm surprised you haven't asked me."

  I pointed at his face. "You mean about your rolled-in-flour look?" I asked him. He didn't look mad, just nodded. "Well, are you going to die on me because of it?"

  He shrugged. "Perhaps, perhaps not, but we all die some time."

  "Yeah, but I don't want to have a heart attack after finding you and make it a double funeral," I countered.

  Benson chuckled. "Well, I can assure you I am as healthy as a horse right now." I looked him up and down; only if the horse was on its last leg out of four and going blind. Still, he had shown a lot of spryness when racing to the door, so that was a point on his side; the horse could still run when it wanted to.

  "Then that's all the questions I had for you. You have any for me?"

  He stroked his chin in one hand and looked me over with those sky-blue eyes; he would have made a diabolical and dashing villain if he had a goatee instead of that scruff. "Have you any boyfriend or husband?"

  I folded my arms across my chest and smiled at him. "None that I know of. Is that required for the position?"

  "No, but one must know how many liberties one can take with their employees," he countered.

  "Don't take too many liberties or I'll give you death," I playfully warned.

  He smiled and nodded. "Fair enough. Would you like to stay here for your week of experimentation?"

  I shook my head; no sense getting so attached that I find myself joined at his hip. "I'll commute. The scenery isn't that bad."

  "Very well. I believe that's all the questions I have for you."

  "Then I'll see you at eight o'clock tomorrow morning," I promised him.

  He held out his hand and I gave it a good shake; he gave one better and I got back sore fingers. "Be attentive when you're driving out here. These roads are rather winding and it's easy to get lost."

  I shook my head. "Nothing more than city blocks of corn and wheat. I can handle it."

  CHAPTER 3

  I didn't handle it; the trip back took an hour longer, and by the time I shuffled into my dreary apartment it was past ten. The peeling wallpaper and cockroaches welcomed me home, and I wondered if I'd been thinking when I refused his offer to stay at that fancy, albeit creepy, house.

  "Too late now..." I muttered to myself.

  I plopped down in my dusty old recliner and dialed the phone number to the diner to call in my vacation for the next week. Sheila answered. "Dan's Delicious Diner. How can I help you?"

  I don't know how Dan hadn't been sued for false advertising; maybe he'd invited his critics over for some of his Lasagna Surprise and murdered them that way. "Hi, Sheila, it's Trixie. How did everything go today?"

  I pulled my ear away from the phone when she let out a squeal of joy. "Trixie! You're alive! Dracula didn't kill you!"

  I risked "No, I'm a few pints less than before I went but I'm healthy otherwise," I replied. I rolled my eyes when there was a gasp on the other line. "I'm joking, Sheila. Besides the phone, is the rest of the diner still standing?"

  She put on her best pouting voice. "It's all fine. The boss wouldn't let me handle the shift, so Denise is in charge of the diner," she told me. The diner was saved.

  "I want you to tell the boss that I'm taking a vacation for a week starting tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow? I don't think the boss will allow that, Trix. That's awful short notice," Sheila worriedly replied.

  I chuckled. "He owes me enough overtime pay that I don't think he's going to complain."

  "But what are you going to do for a-" Sheila let out a gasp. "You're not taking him up on that offer he made you, are you? Please don't do it!"

  "Sheila, you don't even know what I'm doing," I countered. "All I'm going to do is be his personal secretary for a week. If things don't work out I'll go straight back to the diner."

  "You promise?" she choked out.

  "I promise, and I'll come check up on you a few of the days to make sure the diner isn't burnt down," I laughed.

  "Hardy-har-har. I'll have you know I haven't done any
thing-" there was a sudden crash in the background and screaming. "Um, I gotta go."

  I slapped my face. "Before you go tell me if somebody is dead."

  "Um, no, but I have to go call the hospital. Bye." The line went dead; I hoped nobody else did.

  I sighed and hung my arms over the side of the chair while my head leaned back so I could look up at the ceiling. The ceiling was so badly water-stained it could've been mistaken for a Rorschach ink blot test. I traced out what I was thinking about through those little blots and realized I'd drawn a picture of Benson. A pair of deep stains stood in for his glacier-river blue eyes, and the rest of the pasty ceiling was a good mimic of his own skin. I sighed and dragged my hand over my face. The last twenty-four hours had been the strangest in my life, but I could see how the next week would beat that record.

  Now I had to call my mom. I needed to comfortably lay down for this one, so I went into my room, tossed the card with his address on my dresser, and flopped down on the bed. I hardly noticed when the card slipped into my underwear drawer as I dialed and she picked up after the first ring. "Hey mom, I'm alive."

  "You don't sound alive," she countered.

  "I'm just tired." I glanced over at my kitchen table and saw a stack of homework waiting for me. "But I've got a temp job with the guy that might turn into something permanent."

  "How's the pay?" My mom was shrewd with these things; she could haggle an elephant out of its trunk.

  "Really good." I wish I knew exactly how good, and I recalled we hadn't mentioned anything about money for this experiment.

  "And...and what do you have to do?" Mom always had a funny sense of priorities; money first and work later.

  "Not anything your dirty mind is thinking of," I told her. "It's just some secretary work. You know, making phone calls and filing. Nothing sexual in any way unless you count licking the envelopes."

  "And you think this is legitimate? He's not trying to get at you for, well,-"

  "-for immoral purposes?" I finished for her. "Nope. He just seems kind of lonely."