by Misty Simon
Mel enjoyed the company, for the most part. She lived out in the middle of nowhere, on the outskirts of town, and visitors were not encouraged, so she didn’t interact with many people in real life.
But now with Becker here, things were different. She wasn’t complaining in the least, but this many new ghosts would only mean a ton more work for her. Trying to explain how things worked around here would be like teaching a class of cranky four-year-olds, depending on how the old man who’d died and left his house for auction had treated them. She had no idea who the man had been or if he’d even known what all he had in his possession.
Chapter Three
The man of whom to ask the burning questions of where, what, why, when, and finally how, got off his bike, took off his helmet, and ran a rough hand over his newly partially shaved head. He still had sideburns, probably always would, but the rest of his hair was shorn high and tight.
“Going for the military-slash-seventies film star look, Dad?”
“I went to a barber who told me this was the latest craze.”
“I’m pretty sure he lied to you,” Mel said just as her mom zoomed out to the porch.
“What did you do to your hair, Darren? All that beautiful hair is gone!”
“It’s hair, Penny. It’ll grow back,” he grumbled, looking at anything but her mom.
And the woman laughed. “I remember saying that to Mel when she buzzed the side of her head.” She hovered to whisper a ghost of a kiss on his cheek. “It’s good to have you home. What did you bring?”
“Let me get settled. Then we’ll go through the stuff. I don’t know how this guy amassed so many ghosts in one place. Almost every single thing he owned had something attached to it, even the coffeepot. But not this record. This I brought for you.” He retrieved the twelve-inch vinyl in its cardboard casing from his saddlebag.
Mel stepped back to let them have their moment. Sometimes she wondered how her father felt about her mother still being around. Of course Mel appreciated the opportunity to still see her mom, even after she’d been dead for all these years. But her dad was stuck between worlds, not able to move on because her mom was still here and yet not able to stay because every time he walked into the house he was reminded of all he’d lost.
She’d worried about him a few months ago, and they’d finally talked about things. In his perception, this was the way life worked. According to him, he was glad her mom hadn’t gone to the great beyond when she’d died. But Mel had still seen sadness in his eyes. Because he hadn’t gone, too? Or because he just wanted to join her?
She didn’t know, and she hadn’t asked because that was not the kind of relationship they’d ever had. After her mom had passed, her dad had taken off in his new, self-appointed job as ghost finder and had left Mel to fend for herself. Some people from town had made sure she was okay, but it was a long time before she’d let anyone close to her again.
And speaking of those close to her, Becker pulled his trusty veterinarian van in around the trucks lined up the drive.
When Becker got out of the van, Mumford trotted over to be greeted properly. While the dog was both of theirs, he was definitely more a daddy’s dog than a mommy’s dog.
She was next for greetings. Becker swept her up in a hug and kiss that nearly made her swoon. The dream hadn’t died here with them living together, and she was eternally grateful for that.
“Sorry it took so long. The foal needed some help, and I didn’t want to just talk the farmer through it over the phone.”
“It’s not like you missed anything,” she grumbled.
He smiled at her and kissed her nose. “So…a new shipment?” Becker asked with his arm around Mel’s waist and both of them looking out over the convoy of vehicles.
“Apparently. I don’t know what I’m going to do with all this stuff.”
“We’ll figure it out.” Becker turned to her dad. “You want help unloading?”
“Sure. Mel, why don’t you go get the book?”
And so she trooped off to get the book. It listed all the ghosts on the property and also allowed her to know where they were at any given time. That had never really been an issue, more of a way to pass the time, before the last year. Sometimes she would sit and look for ghosts just for something to do. But recently she’d had to use it for its intended purpose as ghosts went missing and certain ones had to be found before they created more havoc.
The tome was not a light one, and it didn’t like to be moved. She met resistance when she tried to take it off the shelf. She was stronger, though, at least this time, and yanked it out of its normal place to take it outside with her. At the last second, she remembered to bring the pen it needed and the glasses that had to be used with it to see what she was looking for. It wasn’t a science in any way, but the means of watching ghosts had been passed down through her family for generations—ever since her great-great-grandfather had buried his daughter on the property and then yelled something fierce when she showed up at the table for breakfast the next morning as if nothing had happened.
And so began Hargrove Junkyard, where they only harbored things with spirits. If you needed an exhaust from a 1977 Cougar, you were better served going to the next town, over where they had real junk. Hers might just come with a ghost that you didn’t want riding in the front seat with you.
Back out on the front porch, Mel pulled up a camp chair and sat down with a nifty collapsible desk she’d found at a local store. It didn’t have anything attached to it, and that was just fine with her. Not everything needed to harbor a ghost. In fact, she often liked things that didn’t. At least then no one could pop out and scare you or complain about what you were using the item for.
Straightening her wide belt that came to a V on her stomach, she then scrunched her permed hair and took off her lace gloves. Her idols from the eighties might have made it look easy to wear the frippery and get stuff done, but Mel had found that it was much easier to strip herself down to the necessities when she was going to be digging in to register ghosts. The process could take forever if they didn’t know their names, or when they’d died, and research was always a big part. But for a shipment this huge, all she really wanted to do first was get everyone in the book. They would sort out history later. Or maybe she could give it to one of her online friends to do. But first she needed to know who she was dealing with.
The first object was brought out. Mel looked over the umbrella stand, waiting for the ghost to come out. Somehow, they usually knew they were safe here. She was pretty sure it had something to do with the protections warding the entire property like a COME ON IN sign that started at the mailbox.
And this one didn’t disappoint. An elderly lady slowly materialized, bent and wrinkled but smiling. Mel liked the ones that were smiling. They were far easier to get to tell her things.
“Hello, you’re safe now. Can I have your name?” Mel sat with her special pen poised and the glasses from the 1800s perched on her nose.
“Mrs. Prudence Cracken. Where am I? What is this place?”
“Welcome to Hargrove Junkyard. We house ghosts and give you a chance to move on or stay, at your choice.” Mel smiled, knowing she was going to repeat that phrase about two hundred plus times over the next few hours.
“Hargrove. Seems I’ve heard of you. We’re moved, then? From the philosopher?”
“Uh, yes?” Mel didn’t know much about the former owner of goods.
“Good. I like this place better.” The old woman nodded her head as her smile widened.
“Well, we’re happy to have you. Now, I just need some details if you know them.” And she went through the list of things like date of death and cause, if possible.
Her feet started itching in her favorite jelly shoes after about the fiftieth ghost. Exhaustion set in. She was not going to be able to get this all done today. The sun was high in the sky, and Becker was helping as much as he could, her dad too, but there were just so many. She’d asked each one how they’d
all gotten into the same place, and they all shook their heads. Maybe that would need to be researched, too.
She couldn’t face that right now, as a lovely woman in a flapper dress strolled up to the table, long-stemmed cigarette in hand and fringy dress swinging.
“Welcome to Hargrove Junkyard. We house ghosts and give you a chance to move on or stay, at your choice.” Maybe Mel should consider making a sign and just putting it at her elbow. Then again, depending on the era, not all ghosts could read.
“Sugar, I’m not going anywhere.” The flapper laughed a big laugh.
Chester, Mel’s resident gossipy ghost, popped out of thin air next to the woman. “Darling, where have you been all my afterlife?”
“Chester, I need info, and then you can get acquainted.” Mel scowled at him in his fancy duds and big smile.
“Mabel Sue Black,” Chester said, taking the ghost’s hand in his and raising it to his lips. “Best jazz singer this side of the Mississippi. Loved by many, adored by all.”
“Just this side of the Mississippi?” Mabel asked archly, tapping ash from her cigarette and rocking back to stand with her other hand on her hip, effectively removing her hand from Chester’s grip.
A sassy one. Mel looked forward to her giving Chester hell. But first she needed to get her registered and moved along.
“So, Mabel, any idea of your date of death and cause?”
“Gunshot wound. 1932. I bled out on the sidewalk while some guy stood over me crying.”
“Oh.” You never knew what you were going to get when you asked. “And do you want to stay? We do have the ability to send you on, if you are interested.”
Like static on a television from days gone by, Mabel wavered and became fractured. Her mouth moved as if she was speaking, but no sound came out. Weird.
“I can’t hear you.”
The ghost said something else, but again there was no sound, and her image went wavy.
“What’s going on? Why are you shifting?”
The flapper’s image popped out of existence and then back in sharp black-and-white glory. “Wow, what in the world was that? It was loopy and dippy, and my afterlife flew right before my eyes. Pretty boring, if you ask me. I need to get out and do some more stuff!”
What on earth was going on?
Chapter Four
No matter how many times she asked, nor how, Mabel couldn’t elaborate. So no new answers were forthcoming. When were they ever? But Mel pulled Becker aside. “Have you noticed anything weird with the ghosts? I just had one that was doing a fadeout.”
“No, nothing weird. I’m just moving stuff as your father directs me.” Becker was sweaty, so Mel stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek, then went back to work.
She’d closed the book to walk over to him, and now that she was back the thing wouldn’t open.
“Come on, you freaking jerk. Open up.” She wedged her fingers between two pages, and the thing finally flipped open. “Okay, then. Let’s get back to business.”
She was ready for the next one that came up. A line had formed while she talked to Becker, and she was now behind. Looking down the row, there were far more than she had first thought. How much stuff had her father bought, and how had he paid for it? The junkyard didn’t exactly turn a profit, since she took things in but could only sell them when someone decided to go on to the great beyond, which could be the good place or the bad place. She never knew where anyone went when she released them, since that was on a need-to-know basis and she didn’t need to know.
There was a trust fund set up by her family, fortunately. It still made quite a tidy interest, enough to keep the place running, anyway. But they tended to get their items in small batches, like one at a time, and at thrift stores or garage sales, or even by donation if someone just knew they had to get rid of something but not why.
This must have set them back, though. Hopefully, some of these would move on, and she could at least make some money back with an auction of her own.
The whole line wavered like the pavement on a particularly hot day in this part of central Pennsylvania.
Time to get a move on. Getting back to work, she took her next customer. “Name and date of death?”
“The day I let you take my soul is the day I die,” the haggard old ghost intoned.
Um, he was already dead, and that wasn’t exactly a threat, considering the circumstances.
“I’m not taking your soul, sir. I’m just cataloguing it. You’re free to roam as you please, but I have to get you in the book.”
“Cranberries are going to be hard to pull this year in the back forty,” he answered.
“Okay, why don’t you stand aside? We’ll get back to you in a minute.”
But whereas the first set of ghosts had all been compliant, if not a little awed by the freedom they had here, everyone after seemed to be having a conversation she was not a part of. She heard about dogs and the stock market from 1929, a broken-down car, and what someone had for breakfast in aught-eight, and someone asked where the laundress was with a dress needed for a ball. But even when Mel answered, the woman looked right past her as if she wasn’t there.
Of course there were apparitions that were on a continuous loop, or stuck in a moment of time. Mel had seen plenty that didn’t interact with those who were alive, but not in this great a quantity. Where had the original owner gotten them all?
Closing the book around a small spade she had picked up from the porch, just so the book would open without a wrestling match, Mel stepped away for another moment. She signaled her dad over. He didn’t come at first, since he was busy directing Becker and looking like he was having a grand old time. Eventually, after she’d whistled for the fourth time, he came trotting over.
“Doing important work here, Mel. What do you want?”
“Dad, did you notice anything off about these ghosts? What kind of vibe did you pick up in the house?”
He shrugged. “Nothing much. A lot of energy, but nothing totally out of the norm. A few looked scared when I started bidding, but I thought it might just be because they didn’t know me, or know I could see them. It wasn’t like I could say hi in the middle of the auction, with a hundred people around.”
“You outbid a hundred people?” She gulped.
“Actually, no. It was weird. The room was full, but no one bid against me. And most of these things were bunched together in lots. I paid an average of a quarter a piece for all this stuff, even the big armoires.”
He looked so proud of himself, and Mel was at least glad to know they weren’t out thousands of dollars. But why would he get everything so cheap? And why hadn’t anyone bid against him? There were some beautiful pieces here, like serious antiques that could make a ton of money at auction.
That bad feeling? Yeah, it had just gotten worse…
It didn’t help matters when even the spade in the book couldn’t stop the damn thing from clamping tight and not opening. Nothing she did, no words she said, no amount of prying, no Becker muscle or ghostly intervention made the thing budge. Damn.
As the sun dropped below the horizon, they decided to call it a night and locked up the rest of the items in the trucks. Mel’s dad wasn’t scheduled to return those until tomorrow, so at least that was taken care of.
Since the drivers were Darren’s buddies from his various travels, Mel had to open her house to them for the night. When she’d said she craved human interaction she hadn’t meant this much, and not this soon.
“What are we going to make for breakfast?” she asked, quickly running her mind through what was in her refrigerator. She’d ordered pizzas earlier and had picked them up at the end of the lane, but that was hours ago, and they’d eaten every last bite. She couldn’t even offer cold pizza for breakfast.
“I can run to the store if necessary.” Becker pulled her close in their bed. “It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. This is more than you’re used to, but you’re doing great.”
“Ghosts are easier t
o deal with. I don’t have to feed them or do anything except store their objects,” she grumbled.
He kissed the top of her head. “Get some sleep. I’m sure it will be fine in the morning.”
She tried and tried, but she kept biting her lip and keeping herself awake. She must have slept at some point, though, because she opened her eyes to Chester sitting on the edge of her bed and the sun peeking through the curtains, shining through him.
“What have I said about privacy?” She grabbed the covers to pull them up to her chest. Becker was nowhere to be found.
“Girly, I knew you were alone, and it’s not like no one has seen you sleep before. It’s a draw to see who gets to watch over you at night. Or at least it was until your Becker became a permanent fixture.” He polished his nails on the lapel of his jacket, then admired the shine.
“What? What do mean?” Her brain ran from one thought to another about all the times she’d thought she was alone. Had she never really been alone? A blush crept up her neck. Many times she had talked to herself. Were those conversations fodder for junkyard gossip? She gulped. She wouldn’t think about it. In fact, this conversation had never happened. Unfortunately, Chester did not get the message.
“Oh, yeah. We’ve watched over you your whole life, from the time you were little. There are bad things out there, my dear, and as payment for you keeping us safe, we keep you safe.”
“I…”
“No need to thank us. It was always a lucky night when it was my turn. Close your mouth, girly. I think we have some issues.”
A compliment and a warning in the same breath. She could have done without the last part, though.
“If you’ll leave, I can get dressed, and we’ll talk about these issues.”
“Sure thing, doll. You’re going to want to get downstairs soon, though, because Becker is pulling out all the stops for the breakfast. The guys are standing at the doorway right now, with their mouths hanging open and forks in their hands.”
He whisked out through the west wall, and Mel jumped out of bed. They’d watched over her. For her whole life.
