What a Ghoul Wants (2 page)

Chapter 1

My best friend, Gilley, has this list. It’s not necessarily a long list, but it’s
definitely growing. The list is best described as:

Things That Give Gilley the Weirds.

Once an item gets listed, it’s never removed. If you make it onto the list, you’re
there for life.

It’s probably good, then, that there’s only one actual named person on Gilley’s list—Dakota
Fanning. Why her? Well, in Gilley’s words, “No one that young should be that talented
and that smart. It’s just weird.”

Other notable items include mice—but not rats or bugs; lady parts—for obvious reasons
(Gil is as gay as they come); baby corn (“It’s not corn, but it
looks
like corn, and that
can’t
be okay!”); leggings worn as pants; people who give an uncommon spelling to an otherwise
common name, like Jyan, Mykel, or Dyafdd; and Cirque du Soleil acrobats (“
No
one should be able to bend like that!”).

Animated talking animals are near the top of the list, and if you combine these with
Dakota Fanning—say, in the movie
Charlotte’s Web
,
for example—you’re liable to send Gil right over the edge.

Last on Gilley’s list, but certainly not least, are ghosts.

Yes, you read that right. Ghosts give Gilley the weirds. Which can be super inconvenient
given that Gil is also the technical adviser on our ghost-hunting cable TV show,
Ghoul Getters
.

In fact, the ghost thing was proving more than a little problematic on this particular
evening—or midafternoon according to my watch, now set to Greenwich Mean Time—as I
squatted next to Gil in the middle of the aisle of the British Airways jet that had
brought us back to England.

“Gil,” I said for the eleventieth time. “Please. For the love of God. Let go of the
armrest and come off the plane.”

“Sir, ma’am, I really must insist,” interrupted the most unhelpful flight attendant
ever. “You
must
deplane immediately.”

Gil ignored him and focused his fearful gaze on me. “Please don’t make me, M. J.,”
he begged. “I can’t do it.”

I rubbed his arm. “Sweetie,” I said, fighting to keep my lids open. I was so exhausted
I felt punch-drunk. “Come off the plane and we’ll talk about it, okay?”

“Talking about it means you’ll make me do it,” he countered. He knew me too well.

My eyes flickered nervously to the front of the plane where Gopher, our TV producer,
stood watching us with an impatient and irritated look on his face. “Gil,” I said
(eleventy times plus one if you’re counting), “I swear to you, I’m not going to try
and talk you into anything other than coming off the plane and heading to bed. I know
you must be exhausted, right?”

Gil bit his lip. “I want to go back,” he whispered.

“Ma’am,” said the flight attendant, “if he doesn’t deplane, I’ll have no choice but
to alert security.”

I turned my head and glared so hard at the attendant that he frowned and took two
steps back. I then refocused on Gilley. “Honey,” I said gently, “this plane is parked
for the rest of the day right here. It’s not going anywhere for the next thirteen
hours. You don’t want to sit here for thirteen straight hours, do you?”

“If it means going someplace other than the next ghostbust, I’ll stay put,” Gil said
stubbornly.

“But you won’t be able to sleep,” I told him.

“I can sleep okay,” he replied, and I knew he was right. Gil could sleep standing
up.

“There’ll be no food,” I tried next.

I heard a tiny gurgle from Gil’s stomach. Still, he pressed his lips together and
gripped the armrests even tighter. “I’ll be fine.”

I sighed and thought for a second. Then I had it. “Well,” I said, “you won’t be able
to use the restroom, Gil. And I saw you gulp down at least two bottled waters and
a couple of Cokes on the way here. That’s gonna be hard to hold until tomorrow morning.”

Gil shifted in his seat.

“I mean, don’t you have to go even right now?” I asked, standing up like I didn’t
care anymore if he refused to get off the plane.

Gil squirmed again and crossed his legs.

“I know
I
really have to use the restroom,” I lied. I’d hit the head right before our final
approach. “Yep. Has to be a pretty uncomfortable feeling, knowing you’ll have to hold
it for the next thirteen hours.”

Gil set his jaw with determination. “I can do it.”

I nodded like I totally believed him. “Sure you can, honey. While you’re holding it,
I’m gonna hit the ladies’ room. Then I’m gonna head to the hotel and drink a nice
big glass of water. Then I’m gonna take a nice long shower. You know the kind where
you just turn the water on and stand under it forever? It’s like standing in the rain.
Water just streaming down and down. . .”

With an irritated grunt Gil unfastened his seat belt and bolted to his feet. Tearing
down the aisle, he nearly took out Gopher as he pushed past him on his way off the
plane.

I bent down and grabbed Gilley’s gear before hurrying after him, making sure to send
the flight attendant one final glare before the exit.

By the time I made it to the top of the Jetway, Gil wasn’t in sight. Instead my boyfriend
and fellow ghostbuster, Heath, was there waiting for me. “He ran into the men’s room,”
he told me when I looked all around for Gil.

“Thank God,” I said. “I thought I’d never get him off that plane.”

“What’s gotten into him?” Heath asked me.

I rolled my eyes and made a face at Gopher, who’d also just appeared at the top of
the Jetway. “Gopher just
had
to tell Gilley all about the ghost that haunts Kidwellah Castle.”

“I told you not to let them sit next to each other,” Heath reminded me.

I shook my head and sighed. “It’s not like I could’ve done anything to stop Gil from
sitting next to Gopher once our oh-so-helpful producer announced he had a two-pound
bag of M&M’s for the flight.”

Heath smirked. “How many of those two pounds do you think went into Gil?”

“At least one and a half, which of course gave Gil a really good sugar high and he
soaked up everything Gopher had to tell him about Kidwellah and the haunted moors.”

The castle and the surrounding moors I was referring to were located in northern Wales,
in a lovely-sounding place called Penbigh, and by the looks of our research, it appeared
to be one of the most interesting haunted places in all of Britain. I’d seen a picture
of the castle complete with drawbridge and its huge adjoining moat. I’d gotten excited
about the prospect of exploring it the minute I’d seen the photo.

Truth be told, Kidwellah was exactly the type of location we needed after shooting
our last episode in Dunkirk, which had been a complete bust (no pun intended). We’d
investigated a crumbling ruin that lacked a lot in the way of panache, and the most
we’d managed to record were some faint disembodied footsteps and the sound of a horse
whinnying in an abandoned stable. Otherwise, it’d been a whole lotta footage of Heath
and me searching for spooks and finding nothing interesting.

But the moors in northern Wales held such promise, which was why we’d all agreed to
it. . . well, except Gilley. We hadn’t told him. And the reason we hadn’t told him
was that for the past few weeks, he’d been acting crazy. I’m talking more crazy than
normal, which for Gil meant—
CRAZY!

He’s always been afraid of spooks, but as long as we give him a nice safe place to
work from, like a van parked somewhere outside the haunted zone, he’s usually more
than willing to provide his considerable technical expertise to our shoots.

But in Dunkirk something had happened, and I still didn’t quite know what. Gil stopped
showing up for our daily pre-shoot meetings, and every time he thought he saw something
creepy on one of his monitors, he flipped out. I’d been called off the location a
couple of times to try and talk some sense into him, and my calm, rational reasoning
had worked well enough to finish the shoot and load him onto the plane, but I hadn’t
counted on Gopher going on about how creepy Kidwellah was. Supposedly, its moat was
haunted by the ghost of a woman who could pull in any careless soul who ventured too
close to the water. Gopher had even suggested that there’d been one or two drownings
credited to her, but I doubted those stories were true. Still, the surrounding moors
had at least a long list of ghostly sightings, so if we couldn’t find enough spooks
within the haunted halls of Kidwellah for a good show, at least we had a fighting
chance to capture something spooky out on the moors.

But now that Gopher had stupidly triggered Gilley’s breaking point, I hoped I’d be
able to get him straightened out before it came time to investigate the castle. The
last thing I needed right now was to deal with Gilley’s meltdown. Before bolting to
the men’s room, Gilley had tried to tell me that he knew the ghost in the moat was
going to come for him, because they
always
came looking for him.

The sad thing is. . . he’s mostly right. Gil makes a nice target for a spook. It must
be something about the electromagnetic frequency he puts out, because ghosties just
love him. Or, more to the point, they love to terrorize him. I’ve never actually told
him this, but I’ve been in enough haunted locales to understand that Gilley is a magnet
for spectral activity. It’s like he’s wearing Hai Karate for spooks.

After ten minutes of waiting near the men’s room door with no sign of Gil, I sent
Heath to check on him. He was back in a minute to tell me that our little buddy had
locked himself in one of the stalls and wasn’t coming out until morning.

In turn, I rounded angrily on Gopher.
“Why?”

“I didn’t know he didn’t know!” our producer exclaimed. “You guys gotta tell me what’s
safe to tell Gil and what isn’t!”

“Nothing,” I growled. “
Nothing
is safe to tell him, Goph! You got that?”

Gopher shifted the strap of his duffel to his other shoulder. “I do now. . . .”

I turned away angrily and looked about for the rest of our production crew, spotting
John, our sound guy; Meg, our production assistant; and Kim, our assistant producer.
I waved them over, noting how worn out they looked. Our crew is a decent-looking bunch:
John’s tall and broad shouldered with dishwater blond hair and a long face that suits
him. Meg is a pretty little thing, with curly strawberry blond hair and a heart-shaped
mouth, and Kim is thin and carries herself with a grace that you’d see on a ballet
dancer. She has long black spiral curls that bounce when she walks and an olive skin
tone. “I’m sure you can tell we have a situation,” I began when they’d joined us.

“Gilley
again
?” John asked with all the irritation that my BFF having yet another meltdown could
inspire.

I sighed heavily. I was exhausted, and I knew they were too. Gil’s timing couldn’t
have been worse. “Yes, John, unfortunately it’s Gilley again. He’s locked himself
in the men’s room, and he’s refusing to come out until morning.”

“What do you need?” he asked. I liked John. He was a good guy and he was always ready
to do what I asked.

“I need for you three,” I said, pointing to him, Heath, and Gopher, “to go in there
and get him out of that stall. Then we’ve somehow got to get him through customs without
causing an international incident, and take him to the hotel. He just needs a nice
long rest. If we let him sleep, feed him, and don’t talk about the shoot, he’ll be
back to his old self by morning.” I sounded far more confident uttering these words
than I actually felt about the situation.

Heath, John, and Gopher all exchanged uncomfortable looks. They knew how big a challenge
it was going to be to get Gilley to go anywhere he didn’t want to.

Still, without a word they marched into the men’s room, and Kim, Meg, and I all stood
outside, where we heard a pretty good commotion erupt.

At last the four of them appeared, Gilley’s torso slung between Heath and John while
Gopher carried his legs, and all the while Gil was putting up a really good fight,
kicking and struggling for all he was worth. I looked around at the alarmed passengers,
and sure enough, two security guards began to trot over. “I guess avoiding an international
incident was a little much to hope for,” I grumbled, moving to intercept the guards.

Two hours later we were still being detained by those same guards at Manchester Airport.
By this time, Gilley was asleep next to me, his head on my shoulder. Having thrown
his temper tantrum, he’d exhausted himself, but managed to get us into deep doo-doo
in the process. He was lucky I loved him and had known him most of my life—otherwise,
I would’ve killed him and hidden the body without a pang of guilt.

I looked down at my best friend and softened just a little. He’d had the same big
head with black unruly hair and a nose that was a bit too big for his face since he
was eleven. He’d been the smallest person in our class—next to me, of course. Neither
Gilley nor I had ever had much of a growth spurt, and although I was still slightly
taller than average at five-feet-four, he remained on the short side at just a hair
over five-feet-seven. His big head was starting to hurt against my shoulder, though,
so I shifted in my seat and his chin lolled forward. He snorted himself awake, looked
about blearily, and asked, “What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” I told him icily. “We’re still being detained.”

Gil yawned and took in all the angry faces of the crew glaring back at him. “You guys
shoulda just let me get back on a plane and go home,” he groused.

“Trust me,” I told him, “we’re all currently in favor of voting you off the island.”

Gil looked down at his hands and sighed. “I can’t help it,” he said. “I’m really scared
this time, M. J.”

“What’s so different about this time?” I asked. “Seriously, Gil. We’ve faced some
supercrazy stuff before and you’ve come out of it okay. What’s so bad about this time?”