Scott Nicholson Library Vol 3 Read online

  But Crystal was eighteen. She didn’t trust anybody yet.

  “We’re cool,” she said. “Dempsey here is a Stone Ager. Still believes in customer service and dead technology.”

  “You’ll find out about ‘dead’ soon enough,” Dempsey said.

  “Whoa,” Pettigrew said. “Don’t go getting creepy, dude.”

  “Relax,” Crystal said, though her inner woman was pleased to have two hunks vying for her attention. “Dempsey’s a creative genius. You know how they are.”

  Pettigrew raised a wary eyebrow. “Creative genius? In Parson’s Ford?”

  “I am an auteur,” Dempsey said, tapping the stack of VHS tapes. “And Crystal is helping me reach my audience.”

  “I didn’t agree to anything,” Crystal said. “Like I said, it’s the boss’s call.”

  Dempsey gave her the dark, smoldering glare. “There are two types of geniuses. Those who create it, and those who recognize it.”

  Crystal shivered despite herself, and a womanly warmth swept through her body. “Okay, leave them here and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Dempsey winked, and she was done for. Those tapes would not only be on the shelves, she’d keep a few on the counter and push them by hand.

  Pettigrew cleared his throat, feeling left out. “Uh, what kind of movies are those, anyway?”

  “They’re PG-13,” Dempsey said. “Don’t think you’re old enough yet.”

  Before Pettigrew could snap back, Crystal cut in. “Horror movies. You know indie horror is the fastest-growing market sector, right?”

  Pettigrew picked one up. “‘The Worsening.’ A woman’s hand holding a bloody butcher knife. Real original.”

  Dempsey snatched it away. “You obviously don’t know the meaning of the word ‘homage.’”

  “It’s French,” Crystal said helpfully.

  “The closest this guy’s been to France is fries,” Pettigrew said.

  “Why don’t you go check your oil or something?” Dempsey said. “The lady and I are having a conversation.”

  Before Crystal could protest being called a lady, Pettigrew grabbed Dempsey by the collar of his jacket and pulled him close. “This lady is my lady. And the conversation is over.”

  Crystal scrambled to lift the hinged tabletop that separated the service desk from the store, expecting Dempsey to throw an ill-advised punch. But by the time she was close enough to put her hands between them, Dempsey was laughing.

  Which was almost as dangerous as throwing a punch, judging by Pettigrew’s twitching jaw.

  Crystal pushed them apart and looked from one to the other, but their eyes were locked in conflict.

  Dempsey gave one more chuckle. “Well done, my tall friend. You get the part.”

  “Part?” Pettigrew unclenched his fist.

  “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a young Clint Eastwood without the facial tics?”

  Despite himself, Pettigrew cocked his head as if contemplating the possibility. Crystal took the opportunity to sandwich herself between them. Not at all enjoying being wedged between two hunks.

  Riiiight. She wished they’d fight forever.

  “You’ll be perfect for my new project,” Dempsey said, talking over her head. Literally.

  “Project?” Without looking, Crystal knew Pettigrew was sporting that slack fish face he got when he didn’t understand something.

  Love. What could you do?

  “‘The Halloweening,’” Dempsey said. “It’s an atmospheric supernatural thriller, but it has some action, too. You could play the tough guy.”

  Pettigrew stood straighter and glanced toward the storefront, as if seeking his reflection in the glass. “Tough guy.”

  “We won’t have to change your accent. He’s a good-natured, bumbling type with a slow mountain drawl—”

  Pettigrew darkened. “You mean I don’t gotta learn French?”

  “A little Sean Penn touch. Nice.”

  Crystal was annoyed that they’d forgotten she was there. She much preferred them fighting over her. To make matters worse, that weird interdimensional Orifice was pulsing on the wall ...

  “Guys, why don’t you have your people talk to each other and hammer out the details?” she said. “Pettigrew, I know you have to get back to work.”

  “It’s lunch break,” he said.

  “Well, then, why don’t you two go talk this over at the coffee shop?” She gave them a nudge toward the door, hoping Dempsey wouldn’t notice the Orifice and bring it to Pettigrew’s attention. “I have a lot of inventory to shelve.”

  “What about later?” Pettigrew said. “I get off at five.”

  “Call me.”

  “Talk to your boss, mademoiselle.” Dempsey pointed to the videotapes. “I need an audience. Or else.”

  Or else what?

  But right now the Orifice was spreading, the size of pancake. To the untrained eye, it looked like a splotch of mold, and therefore fit right into the store’s decor. But if a Lurken tentacle poked out . . .

  “Sure, sure,” she said to Dempsey, shooing him toward the door. Pettigrew blew her a kiss which she pretended not to notice. Dempsey saw it, however, and smirked.

  As she ushered them out, a couple of juniors came in. Rance Barnswallow and Snake Granger were the reason schools needed counselors and truant officers. Rance played tight end on the football team and Snake’s dad owned a motorcycle shop. Between the two of them, they accounted for roughly half the drug trade at Parson’s Ford High.

  While Crystal didn’t much care what her fellow students did, she’d heard Snake had given one kid a red tattoo when the kid hadn’t settled on a debt. Not so bad, except Snake hadn’t used ink.

  “Crystal,” Snake said, with the fake magnanimity of an acquaintance wanting a favor. “Got any specials today?”

  “It’s Saturday. We have the four-for-three special and any of the used video games are half off.”

  “I was thinking something a little more special than that,” he said, swaggering to the counter. His stained gray tank top accented his scrawny arms. His complexion was so bad the kids called him “Pizza Face,” but only in whispers. Crystal looked hopefully out the window, but Pettigrew’s truck was already backing away.

  “Well, lookee here,” Rance said. He was a good 40 pounds overweight and most of it was already sliding from his chest to his belly. In five years, he’d look like Winnie the Pooh with half the intelligence.

  Rance picked up one of Dempsey’s tapes and tried to read it. “Fruh...Fruh...

  “‘The Frightening,’” she said. “New horror release. We just got it in.”

  “Does it got any boobs?”

  She glanced at the packaging. The front featured four twenty-somethings decked out to look like teenagers. Two males and two females. The women were shapely and had bovine eyes. “Odds are good,” she said.

  “We’ll take it.” Rance slapped it on the counter. Judging from his red eyes, he’d been sampling some of Snake’s product.

  “Are you 18 yet?”

  He looked insulted but Snake gave a skinny laugh. “Show her your fake ID,” Snake said.

  “I don’t need no ID,” Rance said. “Look.”

  He pointed. Unrated.

  There were no other unrated videos in the store, and Crystal wasn’t sure whether that meant anybody could rent them regardless of age. The portal emitted a wet, farting noise that caused Rance to glance at Snake. “‘scuse you.’”

  Snake shrugged. “You name it, gotta claim it.”

  Rance put the tape on the counter. “How much?”

  “It hasn’t been bar-coded yet,” Crystal said.

  Rance fished in his front pocket and came out with a wad of ragged bills and a rumpled plastic baggie. “Howdy,’ he said to his hand, then laid a couple of fives out on the counter. “That ought to do it.”

  “I can’t ring it up without a barcode.”

  “Then don’t ring it,” Snake said. “Put it in your pocket.”

&n
bsp; Crystal frowned. Honesty wasn’t exactly her strong suit, but that mostly involved lies to Pettigrew and her mother. Fatback Bob was having enough trouble staying in business without Crystal robbing the till.

  However, she’d promised Dempsey she’d help him reach his audience. She settled on a compromise.

  “Well, if you make another purchase, I’ll throw it in free,” she said.

  Rance turned and walked directly toward the expanding splotch, and Crystal was sure he’d see it, but Rance stopped before the jumbo bags of popcorn. He picked up two bags and flung them over his shoulder like Santa Claus. “Got the munchies anyway,” he said.

  After Crystal squared the transaction, the dubious duo headed for the door.

  “You’re never going to believe this,” came Bone’s voice, obviously from the Orifice.

  “What did you say?” Snake said.

  Crystal grabbed the remote and thumbed the corner television set to life to cover Bone’s voice. “You’re never going to believe the great deals on upcoming releases,” Crystal said, chattering in telemarketer mode. “Better selections and all your favorite stars.”

  “Ri-i-i-ight,” Rance said, and the door closed behind them just as Bone’s head poked through the Orifice.

  “Are we alone?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “You wouldn’t believe what I just found out,” Bone said. She was now completely through the portal, brushing the last of the black goo from her sweater sleeves.

  “Why do you think everything’s so unbelievable?” Crystal said. “You’re dead and raiding my wardrobe, creepy tentacle creatures are invading my space, and somebody’s messing with Momma’s potions at the most vulnerable time of the year. Life goes on. Until it doesn’t.”

  “Ouch. I thought you’d be glad to see me.”

  Crystal set down the tapes she was sorting. “Well, you just missed a face-off between the two hunks in my life.”

  “What? Dempsey? Is he making a move?”

  “Not a move, exactly. Just has that ‘maybe’ in his eyes.”

  “Ooh, I love it when they do that.” Actually, Bone had no idea what Crystal was talking about. She’d seen specks in people’s eyes, and Robbie Sanderson had a yellow sty for the whole month of September in eighth grade, but she’d never been any good at figuring out what people were thinking unless they said it.

  “Yeah, but he was practically challenging Pettigrew like I was the bone and they were two dogs.”

  “Ruff, ruff. I’d roll over and play dead for that.”

  “I don’t have time for one-timing, much less two-timing. I have community college to worry about.”

  Bone went invisible until she was through the counter and standing beside Crystal. The counter felt cold as she passed through, and she wondered what would happen if she just stopped midway forever. But that would pretty much lock her naughty bits in Formica, and she had hopes for them yet. “How did it turn out?”

  “Dempsey wants him for a horror movie. Wants to turn my boyfriend into the Boris Karloff of Parson’s Ford.”

  Bone picked up the nearest tape. “The Darkening. How original.”

  “Yeah, Dempsey’s all about original. If it drips blood, haunts houses, sports fangs, or goes bump in the night—and works cheap—it’s in.”

  “Hey, maybe I can get a part!” Bone jumped up on the counter and started half-floating, half-dancing. “A movie with a real ghost.”

  “Get down from there,” Crystal said, glancing toward the door. “You trying to get me fired?”

  Bone sat on the counter and folded her arms. “You never let me have any fun.”

  “Your idea of fun changed a lot when you died.”

  “What do you expect? Hang on to dreams? Save for retirement? Wait for an eternal reward?”

  “Point taken. So, what’s this thing I won’t believe?”

  “You know that guy Royce, from your trailer last night?”

  “How could I forget? We’re still cleaning up hair oil and bacon grease.”

  “Well, he’s the unborn twin of James Dean.”

  “Right.”

  “That’s what I said. But he does kind of look like James Dean, doesn’t he? Big, dewy eyes, puffy lips, a feminine jaw?”

  “You’re making him sound like a cross-dressing Elvis on collagen.”

  “Plus he’s an actor. He’s pretty good. He’s in Dempsey’s movie, too.”

  Bone wanted to add the part about how maybe Royce had a crush on her, one of those weird crushes where his eyes didn’t really say “maybe.” He could have been saying, “You don’t sleep much when you’re dead,” but she could have sworn she’d seen some, “Hey, chick, I’m a tortured loner” in there. Or at least, “Where’s the popcorn?”

  “Wow. And I thought Parson’s Ford was weird. Who else are you meeting over there?”

  “Oh, you know. The usual suspects.”

  “Wait a sec.” Crystal picked up the VHS copy of The Darkening and peered at the scene on the back. She showed it to Bone. A guy in a tight T-shirt and upswept hair stood in the background of the promotional scene, in which a scantily clad woman was racing through a misty graveyard, undoubtedly about to fall and spill her boobs.

  “It’s him.” Darn. I wanted to be the first real ghost in a horror movie.

  Bone scanned the credits, which were written in a hard-to-decipher font of bones. Royce’s name wasn’t there, so he must have appeared as an extra.

  “We are so watching this,” she said.

  Madame Fingers entered the store, a crimson scarf binding her wiry gray hair. Bone did her vanishing act as Crystal slid the tape into the store’s lone VCR and turned on the monitor. As the opening credits rolled, the blast of organ soundtrack made the old lady jump. Bone giggled and the customer glared at Crystal, who gave a little smile and wave.

  “Why didn’t you just stay solid?” Crystal whispered to Bone as Madame Fingers made for the comedy aisles. “She wouldn’t have known you were dead.”

  “More fun this way.”

  On the screen, the jerky camera panned over the graveyard from the promotional scene. Apparently Dempsey was prepping the audience for a single-set movie, which cut down production time and eliminated the need to secure permissions. Whispers wended in and out of the soundtrack, obviously overdubbed, and the scene was heavily backlit. When the actress came walking across the graveyard, she was almost entirely in silhouette.

  “Alone in a graveyard in the middle of the night?” Bone said. “How stupid can you get. Come on, movie.”

  “Here we go,” Crystal said, as the actress stopped before a large, tilted tombstone. “Paying a visit to Mummy, no doubt.”

  “If she does anything but die a horrible death, I want my money back.”

  The actress knelt as the music rose to a tense crescendo. A shadow passed behind her. She jerked her head around and—

  Crystal grabbed for the volume knob as the screams ripped through the store. Bone materialized to full flesh. Madame Fingers scowled at the counter, turned up one corner of her mouth as if gumming snuff, and went back to making her selections.

  “What’s happening?” Bone asked, peering at the flickering screen. It appeared Dempsey had gone for a special effect that resembled a rapidly opening and closing window blind. All it did was confuse the viewer, which she supposed was Dempsey’s intent.

  The soundtrack was populated with whispers but Bone couldn’t make out the words.

  “I think she just got stabbed,” Crystal said.

  “Guess now we get to the ‘darkening’ part.”

  “There.” Crystal clicked the VCR to freeze frame, then shuttled back in slow motion. Royce stood at the back edge of the cemetery. He looked as solid as he had in Crystal’s trailer and in the Graveyard of Second Chances. As Crystal moved the tape forward a few frames, Royce’s image drifted back into the shadows.

  “A disappearing act, caught on tape,” Bone said. “Do you think Dempsey knew about it?”

 
“One thing I’ve already learned is that actors have huge egos,” Crystal said. “Anything for some face time.

  “Tell me about it.” Bone rolled her eyes, and they creaked in their sockets.

  The bell over the door jingled, and Fatback Bob wobbled through the door with a greasy white paper sack. He wore a Hawaiian shirt that looked like a tent at a Burning Man gathering.

  “Ho, Crystal,” he bellowed with a chubby man’s cheer. “Pimping me out some ‘Twilight’?”

  “It’s been a little slow,” she said.

  “Who’s your friend?”

  Bone figured customers weren’t allowed on the other side of the counter. But the customer’s always right, right? Especially in an industry where your customers are too dumb to pirate files or use Netflix.

  “I’m Bonnie,” Bone said, using her Christian name.

  “You look familiar.”

  I used to shop here once a week before I died.

  “She’s my cousin,” Crystal said. “From the side of the family that doesn’t get much sun. She came down South for a week.”

  “You look like an actress,” Fatback Bob said.

  Bone preened. “Alicia Silverstone? I get that a lot.”

  “Nah. I was thinking Olsen twins.”

  Sheesh, have I gotten that skinny? “Thanks for the compliment, I guess.”

  “Sure. What was that show? ‘Two of a Kind,’ ‘Full House,’ ‘Eight is Enough,’ something like that.”

  Crystal cut in before Fatback Bob started in on a nostalgic reverie of long-lost sitcoms. “A local guy brought some tapes in.”

  “We don’t take VHS in trade,” Fatback Bob said. “No audience.”

  “No, he shot them. He’s a filmmaker.”

  Fatback Bob pointed to the screen. “That his?”

  “Yeah. It’s a little raw, but the technical specs are good. He asked if we’d carry them, and I said I’d check with you.”

  Fatback Bob shrugged. “Worth a try. Buy local, that sort of stuff. Anybody want a cheese chimichanga?”

  He clearly was talking to Bone, inviting her to fatten up. He slapped the sack on the counter with a moist plop. Bone felt herself blanch, though she wasn’t sure she could get any paler.