Ghouls Just Want to Have Fun (15 page)

She nodded. "That won't be a problem. I picked this up in town earlier." She picked up an item from beside her bed, and a short burst like an abbreviated sonic boom resounded through the room.

It took a second for me to pull myself off the ceiling. I decided I also needed to start wearing those disposable undergarments made for bladder control problems, if I was going to spend much time around haunted houses--including ones haunted by blue-haired seventy-year-old women with too much time on their hands.

"It's an air horn," she said, as if I hadn't come to that conclusion already. "If I need you, I'll just give a short burst on this puppy. It's loud enough to wake the dead."

I stuck a finger in my ear to clear it. "Good night, Gram," I said.

" 'Night, Tressa Jayne."

"What's that?" I asked, clearing my other ear.

"Goodnight!"

Yeah. Good night and good luck.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

When I finally crawled into bed, I was wide-awake, and my tossing and turning had less to do with my story dilemma than with the symphonic snoring marathon originating from the room down the hall. My gramma snored louder at night than she did during a extralong sermon.

I punched my pillow. Townsend had a lot to answer for--the least of which was one night's lost sleep. I'd still be tiptoeing around ancient artifact reproductions and Zulu death masks at Christmastime. I had to plan and execute a suitable retaliatory strike. But what?

I finally gave up, stumbled to my bathroom, grabbed some cotton balls, wadded them up and stuck them in my ears. Uh, if you're a minor, don't try this. I once ended up with a painful ear condition when I stuck a Q-tip too far back in my ear. Who knew you weren't supposed to use those to clean your ears? I thought that's what they were for. Live and learn.

After getting a drink of water, I stuck my tongue out at my reflection and headed back to bed.

"Ouch!" My bare toes collided with a book on the floor of my room beside my bed. I sat down and picked it up. It was the copy of
Satan's Serenade,
by Elizabeth Courtney Howard, which I'd finished last week.

I opened the book and started it again, finding my mind wandering as I read. I frowned. The early books by Courtney Howard had kept me riveted. I'd stay up late at night, flashlight beneath my bedsheets, reading till the wee hours. Or until I scared myself to the point that I had to turn on my bedroom light and read the Bible instead.

My all-time favorite Courtney Howard book,
Shadows of the Night,
had been written twelve years earlier. Along the lines of
Jane Eyre-meets-Dracula,
with the Dracula dude being one hot but tortured vampire,
Shadows
was one of those books you just couldn't put down till you'd finished. So much so that I'd hid it behind my math book and read it until Mrs. Jameson, my math teacher, discovered my little deception, took the book and proceeded to read a portion to the class. Unfortunately, she chose a pretty steamy section that gave folks the impression I was really a girlie-girl with a softer side after all. So naturally I devoted the rest of that school year to dispelling that notion. I spent so much time after school that I started making phone calls home to notify my folks when I
didn't
have a detention.

It was
Shadows of the Night
that convinced me that bloodsuckers with fangs could be as sexy as professional rodeo riders--or a certain ranger who was on my hit-back-hard list.

I padded over to my bookcase--yes, I do have such an item in my room--and pulled the hardback from its place on the shelf, then got back into bed. I opened the book and began to read.

During the daylight hours I counsel myself to put the past behind me. To lay aside the cloak of grief and despair I wrap tightly round me like a dark cocoon, and to cast that heavy shroud of loss from me. I challenge myself daily to live again. And perhaps dare to love again. It's moments like this, however--when the dark shadows of the night close in about me and conjure up pictures in my mind of mists and secrets, good and evil, hope and redemption--that I realize that I will never leave the past behind. For it is part of me, and I am part of it. But maybe with the telling I can finally find a measure of peace. Of understanding. And perhaps then the loss will be easier to bear, the grief not so paralyzing.

It all began with a child....

I was lost. Lost in the magic of a storyteller's spell. Hopelessly snared by the evocative prose. Hey, what do you know? I do have a sentimental side. Uh, just don't let that get out, 'kay?

I awoke the next morning to the unfamiliar chorus of clanging pots and pans from the kitchen. I sniffed a couple times. Oh buddy, there's nothing better than the smell of freshly brewed coffee to wake up to in the morning.

I checked the time. Six o'clock. I swung my feet over the side of the bed. A thud got my attention, and I bent down to pick up
Shadows of the Night,
which had fallen to the floor. I'd read into the wee hours, falling asleep just as the heroine was about to offer up her long, pale neck and life's blood, and all for the sake of a man. Ah. Ain't love grand?

I got out of bed and stumbled past the piles of boots I'd thrown on the floor last night so that I could actually go to bed, and made a beeline for the kitchen and a caffeine fix. My gramma's backside greeted me. Her upper torso halfway in the fridge, she was bent at the waist, her velour-clad bottom framed in the open interior of the refrigerator.

"Uh, what are you looking for, Gram?" I asked, grabbing a big blue cup from the mug tree and pouring a cup of coffee.

"What most people look for in a refrigerator," she said. "Food. But I'm coming up empty-handed. All I've found so far is a half-eaten package of pepperoni that expired two weeks ago, a package of bagels that are hard as hockey pucks, fuzzy cream cheese and a couple cans of lite beer. You need to go shopping, Tressa."

I shrugged. "I eat out most of the time," I told her. "Besides, you know what happens when I cook. We're talking major
Backdraft
here," I said. I inherited my lack of culinary prowess honestly. My gramma used to make Paw-Paw Will do most of the cooking. He never seemed to mind. Especially after she exploded that turkey in the oven early in their marriage. When my gammy cooks, we pray
after
the meal.

"Well, that will have to change," Gram said. "We can't entertain gentlemen callers without food in the house. It just ain't done."

"Gentlemen callers?" The last gentleman who called at my house had come to suck poop out of the septic tank with a four-inch-wide hose.

"Remember, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach," Gram reminded me.

For me, that would read more like, "The way to the nearest emergency room is via Tressa's cooking."

"I don't exactly entertain that much, Gram," I told her. "I work three jobs. I'm lucky I have time to eat, myself."

"I'll make a grocery list," she said, and closed the refrigerator door. "But that won't help us with breakfast."

"There are Dairee Freeze chocolate-peanut ice cream bars in the freezer," I informed her. "Uncle Frank had a bunch of them to get rid of. They taste real good with a cup of coffee."

"That's hardly breakfast food," she said, but I saw her eyes dart in the direction of the freezer. "I don't think that's a proper way to start the day."

I shrugged. "Suit yourself," I said, getting up and heading to the fridge. I opened the freezer door, grabbed an ice cream bar, unwrapped it, tossed the wrapper and returned to my seat.

"It does contain milk," Gram said, watching me nibble on the ice cream confection. "And milk has calcium, so in a way I'd be helping fight my osteoporosis by eating ice cream. So I reckon eating one of them Dairee Freeze ice cream bars is actually promoting good bone health."

I raised my brows. That was a stretch. But one I'd remember when I was in my seventies and really wanting a peanutty ice cream bar.

I finished up my breakfast, threw on a pair of blue jeans and my grungiest cowboy boots and an old gray hoodie, and hurried out to do chores. Butch and Sundance tailed me down to the barn, stopping to sniff the ground, then letting loose with barks and running to catch up with me like I'd pulled a fast one on them. The goofballs.

I presently care for three horses, but I'm always in the market for more, even if my wallet isn't. Two of the horses are mine. One belongs to my mother. With the names we give our horses, you'd think we were a family of gamblers. My mother's horse is Queen of Hearts, or Queenie for short, a sorrel quarter horse with a nifty white blaze. Her first horse was Royal Flush. I am the proud owner of Black Jack, a black quarter-mix, and Joker, an Appaloosa quarter. Talk about goofballs. Joker is one of those horses more on the order of a great big dog. He can just wrap you around his hoof. I really learned to ride on Joker. He's a horse you can make those amateur mistakes with and actually live to regret it. Dopey but adorable.

I checked the tiny herd's water supply, scooping off the green gunk that collects on top of the water when horses drink after consuming hay or grass. I replenished the hay and tossed some grain into the feed boxes in their stalls. I didn't have to whistle for them this morning, as they were already up from the pasture and milling about the lot. I threw open the barn door and, in procession, they pranced into the barn and into their respective stalls. While they ate, I forked poop into the spreader and thought about my living arrangements.

Now, don't get the wrong idea here. I love my gammy, but a twenty-three-year-old just isn't supposed to be living with her grandmother. I think it's written down somewhere. Unfortunately, my options were pretty limited. Even if I found an apartment in town that I could afford, chances were they wouldn't allow two hairy ponies on the premises without a hefty deposit. More important, I just couldn't sentence my two dogs to a cracker box existence in a small apartment. They needed room to run and play. And to dig in the dirt and make big messes. Like all children.

I finished up the chores, herded my four-legged critters out of the barn and headed back to the house. I filled the dogs' bowls and hit the shower, then dressed in low-slung brown slacks, a white turtleneck and a khaki-colored denim jacket. Gram was sitting on the living room couch, watching
Get Smart
reruns and writing her grocery list, when I emerged as put together as I get.

"How much milk do you think we need?" she asked. "How much do you drink?"

I thought about it. "That depends," I told her.

"On what?"

"On whether you buy Double Stuf Oreos and Soft N Chewy chocolate chip cookies," I said.

"I'll get a gallon," she said. Bless her heart. You gotta love her.

I kissed her good-bye, warned her not to walk over to the house unless she called Mom first and told her she was on her way, and headed out the door.

I snitched some petrol from my dad's farm tank. We don't actually have a farm, but my dad likes the trappings. Plus, it's nice to have a gas tank on the premises--especially if one is running low on gas and cash. As is often my SOP.

I drove to town in a surprisingly good mood, considering I'd gotten little sleep due to my snoring roommate and my late-night date with a certain sexy vampire. As I drove into town and by the middle school, I noticed toilet paper decorating the trees on the south side of the building. Classroom windows were soaped. I marveled at how the students managed to spell all the bad words correctly. Public education must be in better shape than I'd heard.

So far I hadn't spotted any outhouses yet, but it was getting much more difficult to snatch one of these little beauties. Folks who owned these gems had gotten smart and usually protected them from becoming Porta Potties. The spoilsports.

I parked in a small lot behind the
Gazette
and entered through the back door. I got as far as the layout room when Smitty stopped me. "I'd turn around and go out the way I came in, if I were you," he told me.

"And why would you do that?" I asked. "If you were me."

Smitty put down the advertisements he'd been editing. "Because Stan's greeting this morning was something along the lines of, 'Calamity Jayne is on her last roundup'--or words to that effect."

I frowned. He couldn't still be sore over that "lard-ass" remark? Could he? I decided not to risk it when I caught sight of the fluorescent lights reflecting off his shiny balding head.

"Turner. My office. Now."

Smitty gave me a see-I-told-you look that also held a touch of pity. "Good luck, kid," he said.

I nodded. "Thanks, Smitty," I replied. "And thanks for the heads-up. Maybe we should come up with a system like Homeland Security has for terror alerts. You could hold up a green flag if everything is cool, a yellow one if it's an 'enter at your own risk' environment and a red one if it's a danger zone."

Smitty nodded. "We'd only need the yellow and red flags," he said.

"Turner! I'm waiting!"

I sighed. I sure hoped I wasn't about to get a pink slip. I already had a collection so thick I could make a decent flip book out of them.

I hovered in the doorway of Stan's office.

"About last night," I began, and Stan waved me off.

"This isn't about your audition for
Saturday Night Live
last night, Turner," Stan said. "It's about this." He tossed a sheet of paper onto the corner of his desk. "Paul Van Vleet just sent me this little gem. It's appearing on the front page of the Thursday edition of the
New Holland News
. Take a look."

Recalling Dixie Daggett's mention of Drew Van Vleet and the Halloween party at the senior center, I was pretty sure I knew what was on the page. Or should I say "who"? What I didn't know was how bad the picture was. And what the fallout to me would be.

"Do I have to?" I asked.

"Turner."

"All right, all right. I'll look at it." I walked over to the desk and picked up the paper. There in living color--or almost-living color--in side-by-side photos was yours truly, being dipped and subsequently dropped by an ancient vampire slayer. My witch's nose had slipped to my chin in the first picture, and I was rubbing my ass in the second.

"Care to explain that?" Stan asked.

Explain what? The green nose protruding from my chin? My ass-rubbing? Or being dipped by a guy who could appear as a "Before Geritol" poster boy?

"Well, you see, there was this costume party--"

"Party? Tell me, Turner," Stan said, "tell me how I explain to my advertisers that one of my employees has her picture on the front of our competitor's newspaper doing the hustle with a guy old enough to be her grandpa. You're supposed to be selling our papers--not the other guy's, you know."

"Tango," I corrected.

"What?"

"Tango, not the hustle."

Stan shook his head. "What the hell were you doing, anyway? Besides a tango that apparently went very wrong," he added.

I took another look at the pictures. "How do you even know it's me? It could be anybody in that costume."