“What’s going on?” I ask.
As if in answer, cold swirls around my ankles. Ghosts urge me forward. I glance at Malcolm, and he takes my hand again. Together we creep into the living room, the dining area, explore the entire house.
It’s filled with ghosts, from attic to basement. I lose count sometime after ninety. Some I recognize, or at least they feel familiar when they brush against my skin. Others are strange, wild things, the sort that haunt deep woods or old, abandoned houses. The only ghost I don’t sense is my grandmother’s.
“Why are they here?” I ask Malcolm.
It isn’t logical, not on the surface, anyway. I’ve been catching and releasing ghosts since I was five years old. I’m not scared of them, although I’ve encountered my share of stubborn ones. Still, ours is a relationship where I—more often than not—spoil their fun.
Malcolm holds out a hand, turning it in the air. The ghosts are so thick, I can see them swoop between his fingers. “I think they’re scared,” he says.
“Of what?”
“Mistress Armand?”
“Is she really a danger?” I ask.
Sure, she’s a fraud and is planning to bilk people out of money—at least, I’m pretty sure she is. But dangerous? I don’t see it.
“What if it’s a distraction?” He points between the two of us. “For us.” Now he waves that same hand in the air. “And for them. We’re all in one spot. Who would want us all in one spot?”
“If I have all the ghosts, then it looks like Mistress Armand’s methods work, right?” I say.
“What if it’s more than that? What if she’s the distraction?”
“You mean that thing …?” I begin, but my words dry up. Dread fills my stomach; it feels as cold as the ghosts around me.
“Yeah, that thing that attacked you at the mausoleum.”
“That was weeks ago.”
“That’s just it,” he says. “I don’t think it was the sort of thing that cares about time.”
He’s right. The thing—for I have no other name for it—is not a ghost. I don’t know what it is other than some sort of entity. But maybe a few of my current houseguests might.
“Okay, you guys.” I cup my hands around my mouth, letting my voice carry throughout the space. “Who wants more coffee?”
The air shimmers with excitement. A few sprites whirl around my head. Malcolm raises an eyebrow, a quizzical look on his face. It’s really kind of adorable when he does that. But when I hold out my hand, he doesn’t hesitate.
“You may have to make a bean run to the Coffee Depot when it opens,” I tell him on the way back to the kitchen.
“What did you have in mind?”
“We’re going to get these guys drunk.”
* * *
“It’s like pulling an all-nighter in college,” Malcolm says. His eyes are both bright and half-lidded.
Because yes, we have indulged in several cups ourselves. There’s no sense in letting the very fine and very expensive Kona blend go to waste, even if ghosts have been dancing in it all night. And dance they have. Several float in the air, languid and spent. Sprites still zip around, tripping me up whenever I try to go somewhere that isn’t the kitchen. But then, sprites are like puppies—almost always active and nearly always causing trouble.
“You had a reason for doing this, right?” he adds.
“They might be able to tell us something,” I say.
“I thought you said ghost whispering was a fraud.”
“Oh, it is. I’m not talking about personal demons or healing, or messages from beyond the grave. I’m talking about what they see and hear. Each one might have a little piece of ... something that won’t make sense. But together? We might figure out what’s going on.”
“And you know this how?”
“Lately my grandmother’s been talking to Mrs. Greeley,” I say, and then add with some reluctance, “and lately, I think I can hear her too.”
“And you’re telling me this now?” His eyes are wide, their expression tinged with fatigue and anger.
“I just found out about Mrs. Greeley.” I shrug. “And it’s not like I’ve been having actual conversations. I never thought you could talk to ghosts. I still think that. But I get words, usually ones that don’t make sense. What if everyone here—” I wave a hand. “Has a word for us?”
A tired smile replaces some of the anger. “Especially if we ply them with a fresh batch of coffee?”
“Especially then.”
“What if you lie down on the floor and I place the cups of coffee around you?” he suggests.
I eye him, uncertain if he’s joking or not. “No. That’s just creepy.”
He laughs, the sound tired, but still, a laugh. “Kidding.”
“But lying down sounds nice,” I say.
He stifles a yawn. “It does.”
We shouldn’t, I know. Despite the coffee, I feel the night press against my eyelids. And lying down with Malcolm, even if it is on the living room floor, even if a good two feet of space separates us, is also a bad idea. But we do, gazes fixed on the ceiling. The ghosts there are so thick, their outlines swirl before our eyes, and the ceiling shimmers as if covered with tinsel. Although our fingertips don’t touch, he’s close enough that the warmth of his skin reaches mine.
“You,” he says in no more than a whisper.
“Me?”
“The ghosts. They’re talking about you. That’s what I hear, or it’s the word in my head. Katy. Katy. Katy.” He falls silent. “They like you.”
“I don’t know why. I’m always spoiling their fun.”
“I don’t think they mind that.”
I don’t respond. Above us the ghosts continue their dance. A sprite nudges my foot.
“Do you hear anything?” Malcolm asks.
“I don’t know. It’s too silly to be anything real.”
“What is it?” he says.
“Boo.”
“What?”
“Just that. Boo. You know, when you want to scare someone. You pop out and say, ‘Boo!’ It’s a little kid thing.”
“A child’s idea of a ghost.”
With his words, we both turn our heads to face each other.
“No.” And I hate the way the word emerges from my mouth, pathetic and small.
“He’s not here, Katy.” Malcolm pushes up on his elbows. “He ... it ... whatever it is. We’re safe, you’re safe, in this house.”
“And you know this how?”
He glances around, waves his fingers through a ghost. “Probably because they’re here. They’re scared, too, remember?”
“I’m not sure this makes us safe,” I say.
“Then what does it make us?”
“Trapped.”
The walls around us shudder as if that single word has triggered such a trap. I scamper to my feet, Malcolm reaching a hand to help me up. We stand there, clutching hands, the walls trembling around us.
“Whatever it is,” Malcolm says, “it’s outside the house. We’re safe.”
I’m not so sure.
The greatest trembling comes from the front. That’s where the threat is. That’s where we must go, if only to see what we’re up against.
“Come on.” I nod toward what used to be the formal dining room of the house. The windows look out onto the front lawn.
We leave the dining room light off. Malcolm splits two of the venetian blinds with his fingers. He swears and lets the blinds fall back into place. Then he doesn’t move.
So I repeat the exercise. There on the sidewalk is not the creature that haunts my dreams, not the thing that tried to kill me mere weeks before, but Malcolm’s brother.
Nigel looks nearly ghostly himself, that shock of white hair, his thin, drawn face. He hasn’t fully recovered, at least not physically, from ghost eating. He stares up at the house as if it’s a banquet.
No wonder the ghosts are shaking my walls.
“It’s okay,” I call out to them.
“He won’t swallow you.”
The trembling continues. Malcolm heaves a sigh. No one in this house, human or otherwise, believes me.
“I won’t let him,” I add, slipping through the pocket door that leads to the front entrance. I touch the handle, flinch and jerk my hand back so hard, I smack Malcolm in the chest.
“Sorry.” I clutch my freezer-burnt hand with the other. “Come on, guys. Let us out.”
Nothing. The doorknob is pale with frost. I know if we brew another pot of coffee, I’ll be sick.
“He won’t come in, but you need to let us out,” I say, using my most reasonable voice. “You want to go back to haunting someone other than me, right? I’ll just catch you all right now and drive you out to the nature preserve.”
The doorknob thaws, warm brass breaking through the frost. I don’t even have to turn it. A bevy of ghosts obligingly push open the door for us. We spill onto the front porch. The door slams behind us.
It will take another round of bribery to get them to open it again.
“Nigel?” Malcolm grabs the porch railing, the knuckles of his hands turning white. “What’s going on?”
“Katy’s grandmother,” he begins.
I cut him off. “My grandmother!” I start for the steps, but Malcolm stops me with a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“She … your grandmother sent me,” Nigel says. He stares up at the house, his eyes wide with both horror and hunger. “Mistress Armand. She’s chased all the ghosts away from the care facility. She’s there now ... feasting.”
“Feasting?” I can barely force the word through all the bile in my throat.
“Not like you think,” Nigel adds. “She consumes shame, humiliation. In some ways, she’s like me. I’m—” His gaze goes once again to the house. “Addicted to ghosts. She’s addicted to shame—as long as it’s someone else’s. That’s why she gets everyone to confess their deepest regrets, their most shameful experiences.”
The notion hits me hard. “And she’s at the care facility because people with long lives often have a long list of regrets.”
“It’s the ultimate in schadenfreude,” Malcolm observes.
Joy in the misfortune of others. Joy and money. And how terrible is it to steal everything from someone?
“We should go,” I say, casting Malcolm a wary glance. “They’ll need our help.”
Malcolm rests his head on my shoulder. “I can’t leave him here,” he says in a voice meant only for my ears. “I can’t. You know that. And you can’t go alone.”
“I can go alone,” I insist.
“No, you can’t!”
The voice isn’t Malcolm’s. Nor is it Nigel who speaks these words. From next door, Sadie charges down her porch steps, her pink fleece robe flapping in her wake. Matching pink slippers encase her feet, and their soles slap the concrete with each fierce stride. She holds a broom like a sword. She is so ferocious that I take a step back, into Malcolm’s embrace.
“I will guard the ghosts!” she declares. “I won’t let this young man hurt himself further, and I won’t let them”—she brandishes the broom at my house—“get into any trouble, either.”
“Sadie, are you sure?” I say. This? From the woman terrified of sprites?
“You know who left me, right?” she says. “Harold. The whole town knows that, thanks to Mistress Armand. You know who didn’t leave me?”
I can only shake my head.
“My sprites. Even though they were scared—yes, I could tell—they stayed with me all night. After reliving the humiliation of Harold at the séance, after everything I’ve tried to do to get rid of them, they stayed. Well? I’m here to return the favor.” She shakes the broom at Nigel. “Don’t get any ideas, young man.”
Nigel steps off the sidewalk and lands in the gutter.
Sadie turns to us, broom at the ready. “Well? Don’t just stand there. Go!”
“We can take my car,” Malcolm says. “It will be fastest.” He pats his pockets. “Damn, my keys are—”
My front door flies open. A second later, a key fob sails through the air and lands at Malcolm’s feet.
“Well?” Sadie prompts again.
Malcolm grabs the keys while I launch myself into the convertible’s passenger seat. We leave behind a motley crew in the exhaust. A reformed ghost eater, a woman petrified of ghosts, and a house filled with every spirit in town, except for one.
* * *
The sun rises with a burst of orange and pink that makes the sandstone buildings along Main Street glow. Malcolm’s red convertible streaks along the road, its reflection in the storefront windows like something from a movie.
“Do you think it’s that ... thing?” I ask Malcolm over the roar of air. “He ... it was looking for a body.” Not to mention, the thing had captured Nigel’s for a short time.
Malcolm shakes his head. “No. She touched me, remember? On stage?”
Oh. Yes. I remember.
“I don’t know who she really is, but she had too much substance and warmth to be anything but human.”
I’m not certain that’s proof. Then again, I can’t shake away the image of her red nails clutching Malcolm’s jaw, so my view is definitely skewed.
Malcolm parks in the roundabout driveway. From the moment he shuts off the engine, I can hear the cries. Sobs, heartfelt and deep—the sort that shake your entire body. I cast a glance at Malcolm. His worried frown must mirror my own. The crying continues, each wail squeezing my heart so hard it hurts.
My legs wobble when I hop out. Unsteady, I clutch the side of the car, not quite ready to burst through the double doors and into the care facility itself. Sweat bathes my forehead. A wave of dizziness pushes me back against the car door.
“Katy?” Malcolm is at my side. He appears to sway before my eyes.
“The all-nighter? I feel ...”
“Weak,” he finishes. “Me too.”
The cries continue unabated.
“I felt fine when we left,” I say. “Tired, but fine.”
He nods and rubs his temples.
Near the entrance, someone has left a walker. I stumble across the outdoor carpeting and make a grab for it. I miss. I tumble onto the ground and trigger the automatic doors. They whoosh open. From inside, the sound of crying increases, louder, more heart wrenching.
I pull myself up and onto the walker, triggering the doors each time they try to close. By the time Malcolm reaches me, his skin has gone a horrid shade of gray.
“You look awful,” he says.
“That makes two of us.”
We hobble toward the facility entrance, the doors wide open now. With each step, the cries grow until I’m certain the sound is thickening the air around us.
“I have the strangest urge to tell you about the time I lost my shorts during a soccer game,” he says, his breath labored.
“During the game? You mean on the field, in front of everyone?”
“Yes, it was ... humiliating, to say the least, and I wasn’t wearing any—”
I place a finger over his lips. “Not now.”
“But—”
“Someday, when this is all over, if you still want to tell me, you can. But not now. She only wants to feed on your shame.”
Understanding dawns in his weary eyes. “Of course. That explains why I want to also tell you about all my bad dates.”
“I can’t believe you ever had a bad date,” I say. He’s too smooth and charming.
“I’m refraining.” Somehow, he manages a wink. “Later, and you can tell me about yours.”
“There isn’t anything to tell.”
I start up our trek again. We’re almost to the lobby and the carpeted floor there. I’m not certain how much longer I can walk, and falling there, rather than the hard tile of the entrance, feels like the better option.
“So all your dates have been amazingly good?” he asks.
“There haven’t been any dates,” I say, palms sweating against the walker’s handgrips. �
��Good or bad.”
Malcolm halts, so I plunk the walker forward a foot or two without him. I’m on the carpet now, and the surface steadies my footsteps. When Malcolm doesn’t catch up, I crane my neck to peer at him.
“You’ve never been on a date?” His gaze surveys me, from wobbly feet to the top of my head, his look incredulous.
“No.” Only now that I’ve confessed do I realize how odd it is for a woman my age to have never dated. How … humiliating.
Something crackles in the air, raises the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck, like a surge of electricity. A second later, a force knocks me across the room, into the reception desk and onto the floor. I fight to regain my breath, my bearings. My vision tunnels to a single point before expanding.
“Thank you, ghost hunter,” a voice says, melodious and feminine, and just this side of seductive. “That was a most delicious bite of shame you served up. I do hope there’s more where that came from.”
Mistress Armand is still lithe and tall, her glossy black hair streaming down her back, her white caftan fluttering around her. And yet, something about her is massive. I’d call it her aura, but I don’t believe in such things; my grandmother never did, anyway. Something surrounds Mistress Armand like a force field. It glows and crackles and gives off the occasional spark.
Any words I might say would be lost in the electricity that fills the air. Silence may be golden; in this case, I suspect it may be the only thing that saves us. Don’t speak. Don’t utter a word. Don’t feed her. I frown, hoping to convey this idea to Malcolm with thought power alone. All I get for my efforts is Mistress Armand whirling to follow my gaze.
“Oh, and there he is, the man with so many secrets, and some of them are oh, so shameful, you bad boy. Do tell, Malcolm. I’m certain Katy will want to hear all of them. You know I do.”
He is a man frozen, is what he is, whether from shame or for other reasons, I don’t know. Then I see his fingers twitch. They twitch again, toward the hall that leads to the wing with the resident rooms, the wing from which all the crying still echoes. In that slight twitch, I discern a single message:
Go!
I crawl, knees scraping against the rough carpet. Before I vanish down the hallway, I hear Malcolm’s voice, so strong and steady, I wonder how he manages it.
Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season Page 8
