Scott Nicholson Library Vol 3 Read online

  “I think it was paper.”

  Momma’s nose crinkled. “Nah, the only paper we have is a flyleaf from The Grand Grimoire that was smuggled out of Nazi Germany while Berlin was a-blazing.”

  She rummaged in the medicine cabinet, raking through salves, ointments, and wads of clotted feathers that looked like dried owl vomit. “I could have sworn it was right here.”

  “You locked the door, right?”

  “I always lock the door.”

  Of course she did. Crystal was the only teenager in Parson’s Ford who had to carry a key to her own bathroom. But she recalled the way Bone had turned into a spider and ascended through a hole in the ceiling. It was possible something had crawled up from the bathtub drain or—gross—swam up from the toilet. And there was that mysterious hitchhiker who had slipped in the night Royce Dean paid a visit.

  Crystal pointed to the burning recipe, which was starting to sputter and throw off bright lime sparks. “So, what happens if that was paper instead of cloth?”

  “You know that line about ‘troubled things’?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Make that ‘Underlings’ instead.”

  “‘Bring to me the Underlings?’ And I take it this isn’t good, right?”

  The recipe sizzled and the concoction was now tarry. Momma put her finger to her nose, which Crystal thought was a harbinger of some warding spell, but instead she brushed away a flaky booger. “Hmmm. This hasn’t happened since ....”

  As Momma trailed off in memory, Crystal braced herself for a tale of Aunt Gertrude or the Utter twins. But Momma turned on the sink spigot instead.

  “Never,” she said. “This has never happened.”

  Crystal was horrified. “You’re just going to dump it down the drain?”

  “Out of sight, out of mind.”

  “What about the environment? What happens when seven-legged frogs turn up at Idlewild Pond?”

  “We got more immediate worries. Like finding out who is getting in here and sabotaging the potions. And why.”

  Crystal pretended to adjust her hair in the mirror and check an eyelash. The move wasn’t convincing.

  “Crystal. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  Crystal shifted her gaze from the mirror to Momma. Mistake. She could never lie straight to Momma’s face. So she crossed her eyes a little. “I think it has to do with Royce.”

  “That boy who showed up dead the other night and made a mess of the place?”

  “That would be the one.”

  “Is he sweet on you or something?”

  “No, he’s all Bone’s—I mean, he’s just somebody Bonnie knew, back in grade school.”

  “He looks familiar but I can’t quite place him. What’s his last name?”

  Crystal didn’t have to lie this time. She changed the subject instead. “I don’t know, but he’s tied in with Dempsey. You know, that guy that makes movies.”

  “Wow, you’re really trying to make Pettigrew jealous, ain’t you?” Momma practically sparkled with a new-found respect. “That will rope him into tying the knot for sure.”

  “I don’t want any knots, Momma. All I want is a GED and a good job and car that can get me to Oregon. A place where I never have to worry about spells or Orifices or Underlings, whatever they are.”

  Momma dipped the oily concoction under the tap water and it immediately sent off a stinky hiss. Crystal wondered if the steam would turn her eyelashes into thorns, or maybe put a raspberry fever blister right in the middle of her bottom lip. Just what she needed for the big party. But the corrupt steam rose on up and dispersed, leaving drops of condensation on the mirror.

  Momma knelt under the sink and searched for the cloth, bumping her head on the drain pipe. She muttered a curse that had no real mojo behind it, but probably some stray cat was just eaten by a trailer-park rat as a result.

  “Now, where the heck is that cloth?” Momma said. “Somebody got no respect for family keepsakes.”

  “Looks like this experiment is over, so I better go do my homework,” Crystal said. She hurried from the bathroom, leaving Momma crawling around and muttering, but at least her head was newt-free.

  She closed her bedroom door. The Orifice was open on the wall, glistening with unwholesome dew. She went as close as she dared and whispered into it. “Bone!”

  No answer, aside from some distant squirting rumbles. Crystal wondered how far she would get if she dove head-first into it. Was it a thin layer, like a donut, or would she have to crawl through miles of gooey darkness to reach Darkmeet?

  It couldn’t be too deep, or those Lurken tentacles wouldn’t be able to reach out so far. She tried again, raising her voice as much as she dared. “Bone, get over here right now.”

  Her cell bleeped and she picked it up, thinking Bone might have used an electronic voice, what the ghost-hunters called EVP’s, to communicate. Instead, it was Pettigrew.

  “Whatcha doing?” he said, guarded.

  “The usual.” Looking for dead folks, miscasting spells, waiting for the world to end. “You?”

  “I was just thinking about you.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “Not really. I’m wondering if we should cool it for a while.”

  The words didn’t sink in because a slimy leather boot protruded from the Orifice with a viscous plop. She reared back a little, hoping the goo didn’t spray onto her bed.

  “What’s that?” she said into the cell, as a blue-jean covered leg stepped into her room, the boot tapping around for purchase.

  “Slow down a little. See other people. You know.”

  The realization squirmed in her stomach like a dozen electrified salamanders. “Break it off?”

  “Nothing like that. But I can take a hint. You got enough pressure, and your Momma don’t like me, and—”

  “Who is she?”

  The leg hit solid ground, the Orifice as big as a trashcan lid now. The fingers of two hands appeared at the edges, gripping the cheap paneling.

  “What do you mean?” Pettigrew said on the phone.

  “You don’t say we should see other people unless you already got somebody lined up. That’s Break-Up Rule Number Six.”

  “Honey, it’s not like that—”

  She clicked the phone dead, serving the dual function of making Pettigrew mad and ending the conversation before Royce stepped fully into the room.

  Maybe we should see other people, hmm?

  “A star is born,” Royce said.

  “You got in my Momma’s stuff.”

  “Hey, if she does her thing, there’s no more limo ride to the land of the living. And that’s bad for all the cool cats and hot chicks out there who are about to discover Royce Dean.”

  Great. He’s referring to himself in the third person. That’s never a good sign.

  “Where’s Bone?” she said.

  Royce slicked his hair up into a doo-wop swoop, with Orifice oil serving as gel. He looked at his reflection in her computer screen, grinning in smug satisfaction. “Hanging out, being cool.”

  “What’s in it for Dempsey?”

  Royce looked confused, which was more or less his natural expression. “The director? I don’t know, I thought he was in it for the chicks.”

  “Look, don’t get me wrong, you’ve got a bright future ahead of you and all. But this B-movie stuff is a dead end. You’ll wind up hanging around horror conventions in your old age, signing autographs next to that kid from ‘The Munsters.’”

  “No way. My agent has it all worked out—”

  Agent? So her suspicions were correct. Dempsey was shrewd but too much into the creative buzz to pull off a major summoning spell. Royce was being fed his own ego until his head was so fat he probably wouldn’t fit back through the Orifice. And Bone would never intentionally put Crystal at risk.

  Would she?

  Sure, she was your best friend once, but time changes people. Burial changes people. And Darkmeet changes people.

&n
bsp; “Well, Royce, you can just slide right back through and get born again, because you can’t stay here.”

  “Who said I was stayin’?” He strutted to the door, blue jeans taut, arms lean and sinewy, and before she could react, he was out.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bone hefted the satchel of videotapes she’d taken from the Tan Banana & Movie Emporium.

  She’d popped into Fatback Bob’s, still invisible, and loaded up the satchel with pilfered product. Fatback Bob must have been back in his office, because the sound of science-fiction laser guns and bombastic dialogue was occasionally punctuated with rude bodily noises. Under normal paranormal circumstances, she would have passed right through the wall, but because of the videotapes, she had to waste one of her solids to get out the door.

  Since then, she’d dished out eleven copies of Dempsey’s secret messages, and no one had recognized her yet.

  The satchel was heavy, loaded with Dempsey’s cheesiest offerings. She felt like the Grinch on Christmas Day, having to return all the presents he’d stolen fair and square.

  And downtown Parson’s Ford was more of a Do-What-ville than a Whoville. Main Street was nearly empty except for half a dozen parked cars, and the awning light of the Hardware Store & Software Development Outlet blinked in a spasm of fluorescence.

  Two teenagers strolled by, probably heading to The Daily Grind & Fabric Outlet for an over-priced latte.

  “Psst,” she hissed.

  The nearest squinted into the shadows. Her black eyeliner clashed with her Orvis camouflage fishing cap. The other had a skateboard under his arm, a toboggan pulled down to his eyebrows, and a Sarah Palin “Drill, Baby, Drill” T-shirt on.

  Trailer-trash Goth. Only in Parson’s Ford.

  “Who’s there?” the Camou Goth said, taking an instinctive step toward the nearest streetlight.

  “Bonnie,” Bone replied, knowing the couple wouldn’t recognize her. She was old news, yesterday’s obit. Four teens had died in vehicular collisions since she’d eaten fender, and all the casualties blurred together after a while.

  “We don’t know no Bonnie,” said the skater redneck of the pair.

  “I’ve got something you might want.” She wasn’t fully solid, but she didn’t want to lurk in the shadows like some kind of pervert or drug dealer. She dragged the satchel into the cone of the streetlight.

  “What is this?” the Camou Goth said. “Trick or treat in reverse?”

  “No, I work for a movie company. We’re trying this grassroots marketing campaign.” She dug into the satchel and pulled out a videotape at random, thrusting it toward Camou Goth, who looked at it as if it were a live snake.

  “Free,” Bone said.

  Skater Redneck took it and tilted it to catch the light. “The Bloodening. That dude already gave us a copy.”

  Bone’s breath would have caught if her lungs still worked. “Dude?”

  Skater Redneck jerked his head down the street. “Dempsey. The guy who made them. He was passing them out in the coffee shop.”

  “Have you guys watched it yet?”

  “Royce,” they said in unison.

  That answers that. Now I don’t have to feel so bad about pimping for the Judge. These guys are already brain dead, and I’m just driving the nail in the coffin.

  “You going to the big Halloween party?” Bone asked.

  “Halloween,” they said.

  “Right. Okay, nothing to see here, folks.” She stepped back into the shadows and the misfit couple staggered down the street, Skater Redneck spinning his front wheel.

  In a way, Bone was depressed that she had been so forgettable, but it also made her job easier. The faster she unloaded these tapes, the faster she could—

  What? Go back to Darkmeet and play kick the can until Judgment Day? Watch from another dimension while Crystal and Pettigrew lived happily ever after? Nurse Tim through his everlasting terminal disease?

  She tossed the satchel onto the sidewalk by the drug store, straightened her blouse, and ran her fingers through her hair, and then headed for the coffee shop. Her sensations were muted—the night breeze was the same temperature as her skin, and she couldn’t smell the motor oil and rust of downtown—but walking down the familiar street made her feel almost alive. She wondered what deal she could cut with the Judge to get a few more years like this, and the notion stopped her cold.

  How many times can you sell your soul, after all?

  The storefronts were festooned with decorations, from the conservative “harvest festival” staples of pumpkins and cornstalk stacks to the obligatory paper ghosts and witches. Outside ArtSpot & Shoe Repair, a trendy junk shop full of handicrafts, a mannequin wore a rubber gorilla mask and polyester jacket, a plaid tie dangling in obvious mockery of bankers and lawyers everywhere. A pick-up truck belched and growled up the street, and Bone recognized the tow lift on the back.

  Pettigrew.

  He would see her for sure, but he was speeding and she didn’t have time to jump into the side alley or go invisible. But he wasn’t looking. As the truck roared by, she saw Cindy Summerhill in the passenger seat, laughing like she’d landed a cheerleader scholarship to State. Laughing like a girl—

  On a date.

  She wondered if Crystal knew. Sometimes the girl was the last to know, but Crystal was pretty sharp. And Pettigrew was the loyal sort. Bone had once tried to test that loyalty for herself . . .

  Well, that had ended in skid marks and screams.

  As the truck screeched to a halt in front of the coffee shop, Bone hurried toward it. A few weeknight stragglers flitted along the sidewalks like wingless moths, all of the businesses shut down for the night. In the square, a weak fountain arced water around the statue of Confederate Col. Hardison Jackson, giant oak trees stretching gnarled arms toward the courthouse.

  The coffee shop was abuzz with caffeinated kids, a syncopated reggae bass riff already audible. It was the center of life in Parson’s Ford, the spout from which all vitality flowed, and Bone was on the outside looking in.

  Easing up to the window, she could see the tables were full of kids playing with chess pieces, laptops, and handheld videogames. Two or three were wearing masks and make-up, though Halloween was still a day away. A few creepy old guys, trying to look cool but coming off as tragically hip, sat reading magazines and peeking over the pages to see if they recognized anyone. Wilt Drumbowski, the plumber’s kid, was writing in a note pad, bopping to the rhythm of his own earphones. He’d been the star of the school paper when Bone was still in school, and it looked like he’d amped up his writing ambition to poetry or something equally useless.

  And at a corner table sat Cindy, Pettigrew, and Dempsey, chatting like old friends.

  She wondered if they were saying “Royce.”

  She was half tempted to storm in and make a scene, demand an explanation from Pettigrew, tell Dempsey that his movies sucked, and slap Cindy with a cold trout. Yes, being a ghost gave her some shock value, but she’d need more than that if she wanted answers.

  Only one thing to do. Go invisible.

  For some reason that probably would have blown the mind of Mr. Schroeder, physics teacher at Pickett High, her clothes went invisible along with her, allowing them to also pass through the brick wall of the coffee shop. Not that it mattered. She could have gone naked and no one would have noticed. That would be cool in a creepy sort of way, but she didn’t want to leave Crystal’s clothes lying around on the sidewalk.

  Inside, Bob Dylan was nasally whining about rolling stones, and the chatter and electronic chirps sounded like a flock of birds at dawn. Invisibility muted her senses even further, as if she were underwater. It took more energy to move, too, and she wondered what would happen if her metaphysical battery gave out while she was stuck in the coffee shop.

  But she made it to the table where Pettigrew, Dempsey, and Cindy were busy slamming mocha lattes. A stack of paper lay on the table, bound by brass brads. On the cover page, typed in all caps, w
ere the words “THE HALLOWEENING.”

  She couldn’t resist standing behind Pettigrew and sniffing that man-smell at the back of his neck. He shuddered and glanced around.

  “She doesn’t know,” Cindy said. Her chair was uncomfortably close to Pettigrew’s and their knees were nearly touching.

  “Don’t be too sure,” Pettigrew said. “She’s got her ways of finding stuff out.”

  “You’re just paranoid.”

  Bone wanted to claw out the diva’s ice-blue eyes. Nobody’s allowed to steal my best friend’s guy. Except maybe me.

  “You guys in or out?” Dempsey said. He waved his arm around the coffee shop. “Anybody in here would die to be in your shoes.”

  “We’re in,” Cindy said, grabbing Pettigrew’s hand and giving it a squeeze.

  “I can’t just go into this thing like a hog rooting for an acorn,’ Pettigrew said. “I got a job and a girlfriend—ooof.”

  Cindy gave him a friendly elbow in the ribs that was buffered by that winning smile she probably practiced in the mirror every morning. Bone wanted to dump mocha all over that Ivory skin and wash the smugness away.

  “Look, this thing is solid,” Dempsey said to Pettigrew. “I mean, it’s not only set, it’s set set. We’ve got it from my agent.”

  Dempsey leaned forward with his mouth open and eyes wide, expecting his enthusiasm to be infectious. Though Cindy squirmed in her seat, Pettigrew was unfazed.

  “Agent,” Dempsey said, repeating the magic word. “Dude, it’s golden.”

  “Why me, then?” Pettigrew said. “If it’s such a big deal, why can’t you get Shia LeBeouf or that Pattinson guy?”

  Good question, Bone thought, wondering if she could stow away in Pettigrew’s luggage and head for Hollywood with him.

  Dempsey frowned. “Because the agent said it had to be you. He thinks you’ve got this Billy Bob Thornton élan that’s going to be the next big thing. Cindy here is a no-brainer—”

  In more ways than one. But she possesses all the other assets, right, Demps? So just skip it, okay?

  As if heeding her unspoken words, Dempsey sat back and tapped his coffee mug. “The agent said it had to be you two or there was no deal.”