Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) (6 page)

The stale silence of the parking lot greets my question. “How does a ghost become so self-aware?”

Most, I believe, run on instinct, my grandmother a possible exception. But this thing?

“I am older than your grandmother. I am older than her grandmother. I am older than you can possibly begin to imagine.” The voice fills the parking lot, seems to fill me. “I was here when mankind first crawled from the slime, and I’ll be here when you bomb yourselves back into it.”

“Then why would you want to be a puny human being?”

“I believe I already gave you my reasons. Indeed, I may have just added you to my list of those reasons.”

“Seriously?” My neck aches, but my words come out strong. “Is that supposed to scare me?” I pick up a percolator, although this is only a ruse.

“It should.”

I walk around the truck and open the driver’s side door. I lean in, as if reaching for one of the bags of sugar. The bed sheet strikes the windshield. I pull my legs inside the cab and slam the door before it can follow me in. I start the engine. I’m about to peel out of the parking lot, in search of Malcolm, when in the rearview mirror I see that bed sheet flutter and dive.

The tailpipe.

I shift into first anyway. I press the accelerator. The engine sputters and dies. I reach for the key, determined to try again.

“I wouldn’t, my dear. Carbon monoxide poisoning is a nasty way to go.”

I concede that this obnoxious entity is correct. So I blast the horn instead.

Now, in the side mirror, I see two figures. Both run. Both glimmer. My grandmother must be keeping pace with them, blurring their images. No matter what Nigel has done, I need to warn him. He can’t swallow this creature. This … thing will kill him, erase any trace of the brother Malcolm knows and—I suspect—still loves.

But I can’t leave the cab without the stupid thing choking me again.

“No, I’m afraid you can’t.”

“Stop that,” I order.

“I’m not reading your mind, not really. It’s just that all your thoughts play so clearly across your face. It’s like watching a stage actress.”

“Watch this.” I hold up my middle finger.

The entity merely laughs that grating, metallic cackle. The sound freezes both Malcolm and Nigel in place. Then they both race forward again. This time, though, it’s as if Nigel is bolstered by supernatural strength. He’s thinner than Malcolm, but his legs stretch farther with each step, and he outpaces his brother easily.

He is nearly to the tailgate when I fling open the cab door.

“Nigel, no!” I shout. My throat aches and my words emerge with a croak. “It’s a trap.”

I’m right. It is. But not in the way I think. That bed sheet bursts from beneath the hood of my truck and drops down on top of me. Someone screams, but I don’t think it’s me. My mouth is too full of what feels like mist. I cough and choke. I push, but there’s nothing to push against.

Nigel crashes into me. For a moment, we’re both trapped beneath a fluttering white bed sheet that is there, and at the same time, not there. But he’s done this before, and knows what to do. He opens his mouth as if for a big yawn, and then I am free.

Nigel falls to the ground. His legs and arms twitch. I am only two feet away, but the chill that rolls off him is a force pushing me back. I can’t get close. I can’t help him. Malcolm catches me from behind, wraps his arms around my waist.

“The ultimate prize.” Malcolm’s voice is ragged in my ear. “That’s what he kept saying. The ultimate prize for a ghost eater.”

“A trap. That thing will ... use your brother, maybe already has been using him. I’m sorry.”

Malcolm’s arms tighten around my waist. He buries his head against my neck. “I’m sorry, too, Katy, for bringing this to you.”

I don’t want to watch, but know I should. If I must fight this sort of being, then I need to know all its tricks. Nigel rolls on the asphalt, through puddles of coffee and damp leaves. He clamps his hands over his mouth.

“He’s not giving up the ghosts,” I say.

“Is that good?”

“I don’t know, but it isn’t part of that thing’s plan.”

When I notice the darting glimmer, I can’t say. Perhaps at first, I only think it a trick of the September afternoon light. But this light has purpose. It moves and swoops—just like my grandmother.

“Oh, my God, she wants in,” I say a second before Nigel uncovers his mouth.

My grandmother dives inside.

This time, the scream is mine.

* * *

Nigel stops twitching. He rolls onto his back, closes his eyes, his face almost serene. An infant asleep. Or a man near death. In my mind, I hear an echo of a voice, a command from long ago.

Katy-Girl, the coffee, now!

“Coffee!” This comes out as more air than word, but understanding lights Malcolm’s eyes.

We race for the camp stove. Except for the pot I removed earlier, the rest remains, brewing and steaming and filling the air with an aroma to rival the best coffee shop. Malcolm pours cups of tea from the samovar. When that heady mixture of saffron and spice strikes the air, I think I hear a cheer, the sound both joyful and otherworldly.

“Katy, look!” Malcolm points and we round the truck together. “Do you see them?”

“I do!”

One by one, glimmers emerge from Nigel’s mouth. Tiny ones, no more than sprites. They streak toward the brewing coffee. They dip and dive in the steam before compliantly sinking into one of the Tupperware containers by the truck’s left rear wheel.

“They’re happy to be free,” I say.

And they are. Happy. Grateful. A few swoop by me, giving me a ghostly kiss on their way to a container. Granted, one smacks Malcolm on the back of the head, but it’s more of a ghostly version of a buddy shove than any sort of retribution.

Sprites are one thing. Nigel has just swallowed something very nasty. We will have to face that.

During my years of ghost catching, I’ve only witnessed a full-on ghost infestation three times, two in homes, once in an old barn. Never have I seen one inside a person, but that can only explain Nigel’s current state. He appears glazed over, as if a thin sheet of ice covers him. His lips turn blue; his eyelashes are frosted.

“More heat,” I call to Malcolm. “More steam.” I refill the percolator. Malcolm turns the knob of the camp stove to high.

“Let’s bring the cups to him,” I say a moment later. “Tempt them out.”

When the coffee is ready, I pour. Malcolm adds the cream and sugar, the spoon clinking against the sides of the cups.

“Three black,” he says, “three with cream.”

“Three with sugar,” I say, picking up the chant. “And three extra light and extra sweet.”

“Because even ghosts have a preference.”

Twelve cups. Always. The way my grandmother taught me. We rush the cups of scalding coffee across the parking lot. Hot liquid sloshes over the sides. My hands throb with the scalding, their skin bright pink. I keep up the run until a circle of coffee surrounds Nigel, the ceramic mugs gleaming in the sunshine, bright blues to rival the sky, the green deeper than the chemically enhanced lawn of the mausoleum behind us.

With all twelve cups in place, it’s like Nigel is some strange offering to the god of caffeine. Steam rises into the autumn air, the vapor clouding my view of him. He is hazy, as if we’ve tucked him in for the night in a blanket of fog.

His entire body trembles. He cries out, once. Then, the world glimmers.

From his mouth, ghosts stream. The more powerful ones jostle the mugs, send coffee splashing across the asphalt, my hiking boots, Malcolm’s loafers. They whirl, kick up leaves and pebbles with the force of their escape. We grab containers and catch the slower ones. Some bypass the coffee, intent on freedom—and that is anywhere but our Tupperware.

I don’t sense my grandmother. I detect no hint of that ... thing, the one who flutters bed sheets and makes me think of bridal veils. Nigel bolts upright. He coughs. He strikes himself in the solar plexus as if giving himself the Heimlich maneuver.

What emerges from his mouth is an inky swirl of dark purple, tinged with green, like storm clouds during a tornado warning. It does not glimmer. It oozes. I take a few steps back and bump against Malcolm. He grips my shoulders, and it’s his heat that keeps me steady.

The thing floats inches from my face. The air around it is stale, devoid of scent. Its presence fills my head. Cold metal. Gray sleet. And thoughts I force myself not to think. Bed sheets. Bridal veils.

“Know this, Katy,” the thing says in its strange, metallic voice, words clicking against my eardrums. “You can’t run.”

Malcolm pushes himself in front of me, but the thing drifts skyward as if filled with just enough helium to give it lift. The breeze takes it and carries the inky mass away until the blot against the sky at last vanishes.

Malcolm swears softly in my ear, giving voice to my thoughts. Then I whirl.

“My grandmother!”

We rush to Nigel’s side. He is still, his face pale, eyes shut. Malcolm sinks to one side, I land on the other. I close my own eyes to hold back the tears. True, I’ve lost my grandmother to death. That she follows me now during her afterlife has been more of a comfort than I’m willing to admit. Now I fear the goodbye is for real.

“Katy.” Malcolm’s voice is soft. “Look.”

So I do. There, emerging from Nigel’s mouth, is a soft, shimmering glimmer, robust and able to withstand the breeze. Thirsty, perhaps, for a cup of coffee—two sugars, extra cream.

“It’s the yellow cup,” I tell her.

Before she swoops in for her reward, my grandmother’s ghost swirls against my cheeks and dries my tears.

Malcolm holds his brother’s hand. “He’s breathing, his pulse is fast, but I think that’s to be expected.”

“Should we—?” Before I can suggest calling 911, Nigel bolts upright.

He coughs, a shudder convulsing his body. His eyes clear. “Malcolm?”

Malcolm nods.

“I ... I ...” Nigel surveys the parking lot, the coffee cups. His gaze follows the tree line. I see the instant the memories come flooding back. The chagrin on his face is painful to witness.

“Oh, God,” he murmurs and buries his face in his hands. “I am so ashamed.”

Malcolm hugs his brother, but Nigel won’t stop his litany of regret and shame.

“I don’t know what I’ve done, and yet, I remember it all. I can’t explain it.”

“You weren’t in control,” Malcolm says. “It was the ghosts.”

“Oh, but I swallowed them.”

Malcolm casts me a desperate look. I inch closer. My red and white striped stockings are ruined, so what’s a little more asphalt? I kneel and peer up at Nigel. Then I offer him my hand.

“Hi, I’m Katy. You saved my life.”

Now I have the attention of both brothers. And yes, the resemblance is there, although where Malcolm’s hair is a gleaming ebony, Nigel has a shock of pure white. Their eyes are dark, but Nigel’s have the look of a man who has seen far too many things.

“I ... saved your life?” he says, each word its own question.

“That thing.” I touch my neck. It’s tender, and I suspect a bruise is already forming. “It tried to kill me. It would have, or taken me over, or something. You crashed into me on purpose, didn’t you?”

Nigel is silent.

“You had second thoughts about it, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know.” The words are rough and honest.

“I think you did, and you didn’t have to save my life, but you did anyway.” I’m still extending my hand. I nod to it.

He takes my hand, his skin nearly as warm as his brother’s. A second later, he exclaims, “You’re freezing.” He turns to his brother. “Malcolm, she’s freezing.”

“I think there’s some tea left,” Malcolm says.

We huddle around the tailgate and sip the last of Malcolm’s tea, my grandmother turning lazy circles in the steam from the samovar.

* * *

We return one last time to Lasting Rest Mausoleum. After Nigel gave up all the ghosts, a few mischievous sprites found their way inside. Apparently, they’ve been nipping at visitors and knocking over the fans. Personally, I think they liven up the place. But a client is a client, as Malcolm points out, especially with our cash flow the way it is.

On our final circuit through the building, we find a discarded bed sheet, some fishing line, and what looks like a pulley from a child’s toy. The innocuous items feel menacing, but the air in the space smells merely recycled, not devoid of everything, not like before.

Still, when Malcolm gathers the things, worry carves a frown in his brow.

“Why bed sheets and bridal veils?” I ask both brothers later in the week. We’ve settled now into a new routine, one that includes Nigel. He lives with Malcolm, and knows his way around a computer. He plans to build us a ghost hunting database.

To my surprise, it’s Nigel who speaks up first.

“Sex and love,” he says. “That’s what most of them want, some form of it. Attention, love, acknowledgement, to be desired.” He shakes his head. “Even now, I can hear their chatter. It fills you up, but it leaves you empty.”