Scott Nicholson Library Vol 3 Read online

  “Sixteen might be worse. Permanent angst.”

  “At least you get to go through the Orifice.”

  “In a way, it’s almost worse, because you get to see what you’re missing.”

  “I miss my family.”

  And they miss you, Cancer Boy. But guess what? It comes with the territory.

  Except she’d never once visited her folks when she crossed over. Families tended to give you the damage you spent the rest of your life overcoming. Assuming you’d get the rest of your life. Otherwise, all you had was the damage.

  “I’ll tell everyone in Parson’s Ford you said hello,” she lied. “Next time I’m there.”

  “That would be nice.”

  Nice. Pleasant. Sweet. Mediocre words for oatmeal souls.

  “Sweet dreams.” Bone waved and headed for her grave, fully aware that Tim was watching her. And so were other things. She floated faster.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Minerva Aldridge had scorched something in the oven and stunk up the little mobile home. Crystal didn’t mind too much, as the kitchen usually smelled of old onions and cigarettes anyway. Dishes were stacked on the counter and a half-empty bottle of Busch Light was packed with soggy butts. The box fan in the window rattled against its duct-tape restraints.

  “Where you been?” her mother said. “Pettigrew’s been calling for the past hour.”

  “Just been talking to a guy in the movie business.”

  Momma touched her three-colored, possum-tinted perm. “Like making movies?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was an actress, you know.”

  Crystal braced for the story of how Momma had played Stella in the high school production of “A Streetcar Named Desire.” She’d leave out the part about Roy Reed, the muscular greaser who’d played the Brando role. Roy and Momma had hooked up, but when Momma turned up pregnant, Roy hit the road. The last Crystal had heard about her daddy, he was working a halibut boat in Alaska, and all she had of him was a blurry photograph in the play’s program.

  “You told me, Momma.”

  “I remember when Stella said—”

  “What’s for supper?”

  “Squash casserole.”

  “Good. I’m not hungry.”

  “You better call Pettigrew.”

  “I don’t have to jump every time Pettigrew snaps his fingers.”

  “Honey, you could do a lot worse than a tow-truck driver. Marry a mechanic and you never got to walk.”

  “I don’t mind walking.”

  “I went to a lot of trouble for this one.”

  “Jeez, Momma, I can get a guy without your love spells.”

  “Yeah, like Charlie Horner?”

  “That was an honest mistake. How would I know he was gay?”

  “That boy had sugar in his britches since kindergarten.”

  “Since when did you become an expert on men?”

  Minerva scratched at the casserole dish and crinkled her nose. The steam made her mascara run. “There you go again, changing the subject.”

  “I’m not changing anything except these heels. They’re giving me blisters.”

  “Call Pettigrew first.”

  “If it’s true love forever, then he’ll probably still love me in an hour.”

  “I can mix the potions and throw the spells, but you’ve got to nudge things along.”

  Momma had spelled him with a powder of dove marrow, bloodroot, and dried sourwood honey, but Crystal was still unsure whether Pettigrew was a keeper. He was tall and strong, but his fingers were rough and he lacked book smarts. He was into bluegrass music, and that hillbilly stuff made Crystal shudder with despair. The twang of banjo strings was not going to be the soundtrack of her life.

  But Minerva had lost the antidote recipe, or so she said. This love potion would have to play itself out the natural way. Either it took or it wouldn’t. Either it was true love or false love, happy ever after or heartbreak, Scarlet and Rhett or “Dumber and Dumberer.”

  I still believe in soul mates. I’m only 17, for Gosh sakes. I’m way too young to be bitter.

  She was waiting for that cosmic swell of the orchestra with each kiss, but all she heard was the plink-plink-plink of the “Deliverance” banjo boy.

  Momma had no sympathy. “Well, you’d best be getting a husband soon so we can carry on the Aldridge line.”

  “You did it without a husband.”

  “I did it the hard way.” Momma’s eyes narrowed. “But I don’t regret any of it, because I got you out of the deal.”

  “What if I don’t want children?”

  Here it came. The lecture. About all the generations of Aldridges who had guarded the Orifice before her, who had boiled and bubbled and toiled and troubled and rhymed and spelled, all to stop the untelling horrors from slopping over into this world.

  “You were born with a precious gift, Crystal, and it’s your duty to pass it on.”

  Only one way to stop her. “The second Orifice opened today. In the video store.”

  Momma pushed a sweaty strand of hair back from her forehead with one flour-coated hand. “Anything come out?”

  “Just a tentacle, but it didn’t touch anything.”

  She didn’t dare mention Bone. Consorting with the dead was against the witch’s oath, and Momma would pitch a conniption fit if she knew her daughter had been friends with a ghost for the past two years. And Dempsey—that was way too complicated to get into at the moment.

  Momma stared out the window above the sink, where trailer-park life went on in its carnival of mangy mutts, muscle cars on cinder blocks, laundry on the line, and kids poking each other with sticks. “That’s not good. That means the third Orifice will be opening soon.”

  “You knew it was coming.”

  “Means you’re a woman now. You’re the new guardian.”

  Crystal slammed her Diet Sprite can on the counter so hard it spat bubbles. “I don’t want to spend my life sitting in a trailer park chanting at a hole in the wall. I’ve got plans.”

  Momma gave a sad, tired smile. “I said the same thing when I was your age.”

  Looking at her now, it was hard to believe Momma had ever been Crystal’s age. The cigarettes hadn’t helped, but the crow’s feet around her eyes looked as if they’d been clawed out by actual crows. Momma’s trailer-trash fashion of aqua eyeliner and burgundy lipstick didn’t hide anything but her pride. Her teeth were chipped and coffee-stained, and even her smile was broken.

  That’s me in 20 years. God, get me out of here.

  God didn’t answer, leaving her to wonder yet again about the purpose of witches, magic, and dead things crawling back from the grave.

  “Casserole gets a little squishy if you let it set too long,” Momma said.

  “I better call Pettigrew.”

  Minerva beamed in victory. “Tell him I said hello and invite him to Sunday lunch.”

  “He’s got church.”

  Pettigrew attended First Methodist, a brick edifice whose bell hung higher than any other church in town. Now that Crystal thought about it, she’d never heard of a “Second Methodist” church.

  “Tell him to come before that,” Momma said.

  “Sure,” Crystal said. “But you’ll probably see him before I do. You seem to keep pretty good track of him. Why don’t you look into your crystal ball and tell me how it all works out?”

  Crystal hurried to her bedroom in the back of the mobile home, kicking off her high heels and nudging them into the closet. The sparse array of outfits depressed her. She’d picked up some Old Navy, but her name brands were from thrift shops in neighboring Seymour and Hickory. She didn’t dare shop used in Parson’s Ford for fear of accidentally buying something formerly owned by someone she knew.

  Like Cindy Summerhill, who goes through clothes as fast as she goes through boyfriends. Use once and donate.

  “And it’s all your fault,” she said to the wall. The portal had shrunk to the size of a quarter, stuck to the che
ap paneling like a gooey black booger. Too small for anything really dangerous to squeeze through. Too small for Bone, too, unless she did the spider thing.

  Crystal did a belly flop onto the mattress and stretched out. Something thumped under the bed, and she froze in anxiety. Momma had warned her about the Underlings, one of the myriad of creatures that would spill from the Orifice if the Aldridges didn’t stand guard. Momma wasn’t sure what Underlings looked like or what they did, but Crystal imagined woolly balls with lots of tiny, sharp teeth.

  She peered cautiously over the edge of the bed, clutching the pillow as a weapon. A pointy-nosed, black-and-white face poked out and sniffed.

  “Roscoe,” Crystal said. “You gave me a spook.”

  The possum crawled out from under the bed and climbed up the blankets, nestling against her. In the old days, witches took cats as familiars, but in the Blue Ridge Mountains, possums were as good as it got.

  She eyed the phone but it seemed too far away. She realized Dempsey hadn’t asked for her phone number.

  Why was she thinking of Dempsey?

  Maybe Pettigrew didn’t know a lick of French and thought earrings were for sissies, but he was honest and loyal.

  Dempsey seemed like the type who would promise you the sun, trick you under the moon, and leave you dreaming while he whistled his way out the door with nary a look back.

  A bad boy. And the best I can come up with on Pettigrew is “honest and loyal.” Sheesh. I may as well say he’s “sweet and nice.”

  She sighed and dialed.

  Pettigrew answered on the third ring. “Yullo? Happy Hookers Towing Service & Auto Service at your service.”

  His corny idea of poetry. “It’s me, honey.”

  “Hey, good-looking, how was your day?”

  “Long. I could really use a foot rub.”

  “Wearing heels?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The kind that makes your buns all jiggly?”

  “Shh. Somebody might hear.”

  He revved the engine to let her know he was in his truck. As usual. “Yeah. Can you hear me now?”

  “Momma invited you for dinner Sunday.”

  “I got plans Sunday.”

  “You know how Momma is.”

  “I reckon. Want me to come over later?”

  “I’m awfully tired, Pettigrew. We had to restock this morning.”

  “Did you snag me a copy of ‘Die Hard III’?”

  “Sorry, honey. It completely slipped my mind.” Crystal rolled over on her back and gazed up at the dark splotch on the wall. Now it was shaped like the profile of Alfred Hitchcock. But it seemed to be behaving itself otherwise.

  “I’d go get it myself but you might as well use your employee discount. It’s the only fringe benefit you get besides stale popcorn and a free tan.”

  “I can’t do the tanning booth when I’m running the counter.” Something squirmed inside the splotch. “Besides, Fatback Bob has—”

  “What about tomorrow night, then?” Pettigrew said.

  “Dinner?”

  “No. I just want to pick you up. In my pick-up.”

  “I have a lot going on right now.” End of the world, crushing on Chain Boy, my best friend is a spider ...you know how it goes.

  Static crackled on Pettigrew’s end of the line as a call came in over his dispatch radio.

  “Say, babe, I got to run,” Pettigrew said. “A Florida Cadillac locked its keys inside.”

  “Okay, call me later. We’ll get together.”

  He smooched and hung up, leaving Crystal alone with that indistinct ache in her belly.

  Tap tap tap.

  “Honey, is everything okay?” Momma stood outside the door. There were few secrets in a trailer park.

  “Yeah,” she said. Lying to Momma was harder back in the good old days, before puberty and finding out about the long line of Aldridges who had been guarding the portals of Parson’s Ford for centuries. But lying got easier as life got harder. If that wasn’t in the Bible, then it should be.

  “You hungry yet?” Momma asked through the door.

  “No.” She could always order out for pizza. Or have Pettigrew swing by some Chinese. Might as well get some use out of him while the spell was in effect.

  “I’ve got to run out for a little bit,” Momma said. “How’s the Orifice behaving?”

  “It’s just sitting there.”

  “Should be okay for now. I don’t expect things to get really crazy until Halloween.”

  Crystal waited for the footsteps down the hall.

  “By the way, honey, stay out of the bathroom. I’ve got something cooking in there.”

  “Sure, Momma.”

  Then went the footsteps, the squeak and slam of the trailer door, and the roar of Momma’s rusty ‘79 Chevelle.

  She rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Damn. Don’t those creeps know it’s an hour past midnight?

  Bone ducked behind the skeletal tree. The Lurken were scattered in the shadows around the Graveyard of Second Chances, obscured except for their tentacles undulating in the night air. Bone had waited past the witching hour because everybody, even dead people, knew you didn’t mess around graveyards at midnight. But she figured even Lurken had to sleep, though she could never be sure whether their eyes were closed, or if they even had any.

  While being dead made her invisible in Parson’s Ford, it gave her no such protection in Darkmeet. She had to negotiate the tombstones the old-fashioned way, by drifting and dodging, dancing with the mist. The sallow, featureless moon hung above, throwing a gauze of light over the graveyard.

  She should have kept on going to her casket like a good girl, a Tweener earning brownie points, but the whole control thing rubbed her the wrong way.

  Who was the Judge to judge me? Who died and made him boss?

  Here and there, spirits were rising from their graves, other restless types who hadn’t figured out where they belonged. She occasionally saw people from history books, though she couldn’t tell Mark Twain from Albert Einstein. Sometimes the Graveyard of Second Chances seemed more like a self-storage warehouse than a launching pad, and Bone wondered if any of her fellow ghosts ever made the transition. Maybe this was as good as it got.

  So who could blame me if I tripped over to the Other Side for a while? Killing time here or killing time there, what’s the difference?

  But she would never make it across the graveyard. Even without the Lurken doing their thing, it would have been risky. The mausoleum was a good three hundred feet from her casket, and legend had it that Poot Owls hid in the trees and screeched whenever someone tried to escape.

  Bone didn’t plan on getting noticed by either Lurken or Poot Owls.

  She was just about to make a run for it when she heard a “Psst.”

  Hiss of a night creature?

  “Hey, good-looking.”

  A piece of shadow separated from the larger darkness. It was definitely a night creature. In T-shirt, tight blue jeans, and black leather boots, it was the kind of creature she wouldn’t mind spending a night or two with.

  “Royce,” she said, wondering if her hair was still a wreck.

  Royce was about her height, but he projected an air of power and grace. The dramatic swoop of brown hair gave him a couple more inches, but it was his eyes that did the damage—they were as blue as summer sky, though stormy and troubled enough to be addictive. Sure, he was see-through, but she believed his touch could scorch her. “Where are you headed in such a big hurry?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “This place is nowhere, all right.” He put a cigarette in his mouth, and she wondered where he’d gotten it. Cigarettes were just as uncool in Darkmeet as on Earth, except they were a lot harder to get. As hard to get as Milk Duds.

  Is Royce crossing over, too? How many Tweeners are bopping back and forth? And, most important, does he have a girlfriend over there?

  “I’m supposed to b
e getting back to my grave.” If she had a pulse, she was sure it would be racing. “You know, that rest in peace thing.”

  “Your grave is over that way.” He jerked his head to the left, bobbing the cigarette from his luscious lower lip.

  “Have you been spying on me?”

  “Nah, just hanging out.” He patted his pockets for a cigarette and came away empty. He shrugged and snapped his fingers, the friction sparking a small flame from his thumb. He lit his cigarette and exhaled a heavy gray smoke that blended with the mist.

  Neat trick, considering he can’t breathe.

  “So, I’m not the only one playing hooky,” she said.

  “Graves cramp my style.” He waved the cigarette. “That’s for ordinary stiffs. Me, I gotta spread out a little.”

  She lowered her voice. “Have you been ...over there?”

  “Outside the graveyard? Nah. These clowns keep us all bamboozled with smoke and mirrors. That corny Judge and his rules. They can shove it.”

  “There’s a gate.”

  “Freedom’s just a bigger coffin, Dollface.”

  Bone felt a need to impress him. Maybe it was his air of defiance, or maybe she’d found an ally, another Tweener who was suspicious of the whole sausage grinder of the soul.

  Yeah, right. It’s those danged smoldering eyes, that’s what it is.

  “There’s a way back,” she said. She pointed in the direction she’d been headed. “A crack in that mausoleum where you can slip through to my friend’s bedroom.”

  “Yeah? Is she cute?”

  Bone ignored the spear of jealousy in her chest. She’d thought getting smacked by a truck was the most painful thing that could happen, but it turned out feelings followed you to the afterlife. “Come see for yourself.”

  His slight sneer froze in place around the cigarette. “Uh. I gotta be somewhere.”

  “You scared or something?”

  He tossed his cigarette down and stomped it into the spongy turf. “Meeting my agent.”

  “Agent?”

  “Show biz stuff. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “What are you doing after that?” She hoped she didn’t sound desperate.

  “Hanging out.”

  He didn’t get the hint, and she didn’t want to push too hard. She’d barely dated before she died, and she’d never quite figured out the mating game. Crystal said if you wanted to test a guy, you had to drop a few crumbs and then see if he’d follow. You didn’t go shoving the whole loaf in his face.