Ghost College (The Ghost Files Book 1) Read online

  “Any way you can.”

  I would have thought she was a little out of her gourd if I didn’t suspect she was telling me the truth. I get a feeling from people, and more often than not it’s the right feeling. From her, I was experiencing honesty and fear and confusion. Still, even a crazy person could project honesty and fear. And pretty much everyone on the planet had a heavy case of confusion.

  As I said, night school isn’t exactly a haven for the best and brightest. I’d have to learn a little more about Parker Cole, and even though I trusted her, I’d need to know things about her she wasn’t even aware of.

  And I also needed to know what she knew about me. This was a little extreme for our first conversation. One minute I’m sitting across the aisle in history class, the next I’m hearing the kind of dark confession that don’t usually come up until at least the third date.

  I said, “Do you want me to expose him for the fraud he is?”

  “If that will stop him, sure. Especially if it will put him in jail.”

  “Wouldn’t that ruin your life?” I asked. “Sounds like he makes good money, and all that will be gone. And you’ll wind up on Fox News as ‘The Daughter of the Monster.’”

  “I can handle all that,” she said. “That’s a lot easier to live with than knowing it’s still going on.”

  “Is your dad on to you?” I asked, knowing I sounded a bit like Dick Tracy, but sometimes there just wasn’t any better way of saying something. Besides, Dick Tracy was cat’s-pajamas cool back when I was alive.

  Her eyebrows knitted themselves together. “On to me?”

  “You know, does he know if you know what he’s doing?”

  “You talk funny. How old are you?”

  “Too old to rock and roll, too young to die.”

  She wanted to say something else but didn’t. Parker was pretty and was probably used to getting her way. Pretty girls mostly didn’t get a reaction from me. Mostly.

  “Fine,” she said petulantly, and I idly wondered if she even knew who Dick Tracy was, or Jethro Tull. Probably not. She said, “No. I don’t think he suspects anything.”

  One of the guys I’d been watching at the edge of the scraggly shrubs came sauntering over. He wobbled a little, probably high on something. I could smell the cheap wine and stale tobacco and the urine, and his heart was beating faster than a little stroll would trigger.

  “Trouble,” I said.

  “It’s just some homeless guy.”

  “Here’s a lesson they don’t teach you in night school, Parker. The most dangerous people are those with nothing to lose. You take a guy who is willing to strap dynamite around his waist and blow himself up in a crowd. What can you possibly threaten him with? He’s already decided his most precious asset, his life, is worthless.”

  “You sure do talk funny.”

  The guy wore a ragged Seahawks T-shirt and baggy jeans. He’d lived hard, so under the lights I couldn’t tell if he was teen or middle-aged. My window was down because of the mild weather, and I wasn’t going to roll it up, because that would have shown fear.

  “Yo, yo, my friends,” he said when he was three feet from the car. “What you people looking for tonight?”

  “We already found it,” I said. “Burger and fries.”

  He laughed, showing dark gaps in his teeth. Meth addict, I figured. “You funny, man. But I bet you want something more.”

  “We’re good,” I said. “We were just leaving.”

  He leaned awkwardly into the car, his face a foot from mine, sharing the scents of all the poisons inside him. “I got what you want, and you got what I want.”

  Parker instinctively clutched my arm. I wondered if she could tell my pulse was as steady as ever—six beats a minute.

  “Later,” I said to the man, but as I reached for the ignition, he thrust one clawing hand toward my throat.

  I knocked it away, and it cracked on the steering wheel. Maybe breaking a bone, maybe not. Not my problem.

  With my other hand, I grabbed a fistful of his greasy hair and banged his forehead off the edge of the roof. When his mouth opened in pain, I plucked the remainder of Parker’s burger and shoved it in his mouth.

  As he fell backward, grunting and choking, I said, “Don’t forget to tip the waitress.”

  I started up the Mustang and headed back toward the school.

  “That was...” Parker said, having trouble forming a sentence. “That was....”

  “That’s one way I solve problems,” I said. “Are you down with that?”

  I wanted her to know that some messes couldn’t be cleaned up with a whisk broom and dustpan. Sometimes you needed a hammer. Sometimes you had to bring out the big guns.

  “Are you...going to do that to my dad?”

  “Whatever it takes,” I said. “If that’s what you want.”

  She sighed. “Whatever it takes.”

  As I drove, I reached with my left hand to the edge of the roof, feeling the wet splotches there. “Do you live with him?”

  “When he’s up from Berkeley, yes. But he spends most of his time at Cloudland. He comes home and visits his family once in a while.”

  “Who else is in the family?”

  “My younger sister Lilith and my mom.”

  “Do they...know?”

  “Mom’s like the robo-wife, on the library board and bridge club and whatever club it is where you drink a quart of vodka a day. Lilith is just a sweet, innocent kid. But I’m worried that Dad has designs on her.”

  “Designs?”

  “Looking at her funny. Thinking. Like maybe she’s about old enough to get in on the action.”

  I pulled my fingers inside the window and pretended I was wiping my mouth. The blood was bitter and tainted, but intoxicating nonetheless. “Have you ever visited Cloudland?”

  “A couple of times. I really don’t like it because all the girls go out of their way to kiss my ass so that they get on his good side. Plus they’re all spaced out on peace and love and that type of crap. Plus whatever he’s putting in the punch bowl. It’s just wrong.”

  “Would he be opposed to you bringing your boyfriend down to meet him?”

  “At Cloudland?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It would probably throw him off, but I’m pretty sure he’d be okay with it. Especially if we just popped in.”

  “All right.” I said. “Are you up for it?”

  “You’re serious?”

  “As a corpse.” I pulled into the school parking lot, feeling a slight rush from more than just the blood. When I feed, I take on some of the victim. It’s one of the unfortunate side effects of my lifestyle, and in this case, the victim had definitely been on speed.

  “But I didn’t do this to date you,” she said, running her eyes over me as if maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

  “I’m not saying we’ll be dating for real. But we will need to pull it off around your family a couple of times before we go out and meet Dad. Your dad will be less suspicious of me if he thinks I’m just a goofy eighteen-year-old trying to get into his daughter’s pants.”

  “You’re not a goofy eighteen-year-old? And you don’t want in my pants?”

  “Oh, I’m goofy. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  She was looking at me curiously as I took out a piece of paper from my glove compartment and wrote my number down for her. I was used to people looking at me curiously, but it always made me nervous—like I was an insect they wanted to swat with a newspaper, or maybe a snake to trap behind glass. I gave her my cell number and she looked at it, and then promptly snorted with laughter.

  “Why does it say ‘Wal-Mart’ above it?”

  “Because it’s better—and safer—than writing ‘Spider for Hire.’”

  She snorted again. “But Wal-Mart? That’s so lame.”

  “Not any lamer than being named Parker.”

  “Jerk,” she said and slapped my arm.

  “Well, if we’re dating, I’d better dr
ive you home, so your dad can look out the window and see us.”

  It had started raining. Big surprise for Seattle. The light patter on the roof of the car was always pleasant. Even after all these years of living, I loved the sound of rain. A few minutes later, following her directions, I pulled up in front of her two-story house.

  It was upper middle class, and a Volvo wagon was parked outside. So Mr. Cole was the practical, safety-minded sort of psychotic religious fanatic. But it made me wonder why he forced his daughter to ride public transit.

  When I stopped the car, she paused with her hand on the door handle. “So, you said ‘for hire.’ What will this cost me?”

  She wore a little smirk as if she suspected it had something to do with the remark about getting in her pants.

  The rain drummed rhythmically, hypnotically. Light from her front porch reached us weakly, illuminating her pretty face. “We’ll work something out.”

  “That sounds creepy.”

  “Not like that,” I said, although she had no room to call anyone else “creepy.” After all, she was the daughter of a serial-killing cult leader. “Sometimes I ask for favors. Depends on how much I trust you. We’ll see.”

  “What kind of favors?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

  She suddenly leaned over and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “Wow. Your skin is cool.”

  “I’m a cool dude.”

  She rolled her pretty brown eyes. “See you tomorrow...boyfriend.”

  She winked and dashed off to her house.

  Chapter Four

  I looked at my test again and couldn’t fathom that there was actually a question that this second-rate high school could find in U.S. History that I would not know.

  “In 1906, who was the Speaker of the House?”

  First of all, who cares? Seriously? How was this question going to help any U.S. citizen get further in life? It was almost as if Mr. Harris, my history teacher, threw this question out there because he was tired of me acing every test.

  I looked at the clock; it was five minutes before 10 p.m. I had to come to terms with the notion that, for the first time in my life—or at least my new unlife—I didn’t know the answer to a question on a test.

  Well, if you’re going to go out, you might as well go out with a bang. In the available spot, I put “Robert Pattinson.”

  I walked to the front of the class and handed Mr. Harris the test, staring the old fogey down.

  “May I help you, Mr. Walsh?”

  “Well played, sir,” I said. “Well played.”

  Mr. Harris smiled at me through the corner of his mouth, knowing that he’d gotten the best of me. He and I both knew what he’d done. I turned around and made zero eye contact with anyone on my way back to my desk.

  “Hey, diphead,” a voice from behind me echoed. It was Frank Manciti. The class bully who thought he could intimidate the undeveloped smart kid. Yes, even night school has bullies.

  It was now my turn to play the fool for this idiot and appear weak. People thought I was weird and creepy already and this guy was leader of the lot. To be honest, I was tired of him throwing things at me and calling me names like Butthead and Scum Bubble. Unfortunately, I couldn’t waste my secret on this imbecile so I let him be the gooch.

  “Quit it,” I mumbled.

  “What was that, Taylor Swift?” he quipped.

  Taylor Swift? What did that even mean?

  “Hey, Mini Albert Einstein, turn around so I can talk to you.”

  Frank wanted me to turn around so he could see my expression as he insulted me. Little did he know I could see his every movement and didn’t need to alter my positioning. Staring ahead, but in my mind’s eye watching his every move, sensing his presence. I looked towards the chalkboard like a poker player not giving away what’s in his hand. I could see his smug face on his dirty blonde head. He was looking at his buddies for approval. He was holding a pencil in his right hand. It was a matter of seconds before the pencil would be routed in my direction.

  I was tired of allowing him to hurl things and just taking it. It was time I took a stand. I could see Parker looking at me and, to be honest, I didn’t want to appear wimpy after my big show on the drug addict the night before.

  I was going to do something, and it would be subtle but would make my point. It was just a matter of waiting for Franky Spanky to throw the darn pencil, and just like in a bad script for a John Hughes film, he flung the pencil at my head. Without looking, I caught the pencil somewhere near my neck, spun it once in my hand, and flipped it back at him. The graphite tip whistled one inch past his fat head and stuck into the wall.

  “Holy crap, did you see that?” shouted someone from the back. “He flippin’ caught the pencil and threw it back without turning around.”

  “No way, dude. That’s impossible,” a long-haired stoner sitting next to Frank responded.

  Now it was time to turn around. I’d had enough fun using the eyes-behind-my-back trick, which I had recently mastered to obvious perfection.

  Frank, I think, was having a hard time processing what had just happened. He looked from the pencil, which was still wobbling in the wall like an arrow in a bullseye, to me. Finally, he said, “Did you throw that at me, putz?”

  “Throw what?” I asked, as clueless as a class nerd could sound.

  Frank looked at his buddies seated around him. “Did one of you douche bags throw that?”

  They all shook their heads. Frank pulled the pencil out of the back wall and scoped it to see if it was the same bit of lumber he had just tossed in my direction. I think his worst fears were confirmed. Some of the color drained from his face. He slumped back in his chair and waved me off. “Just turn around, Nancy Pants,” he said. “Nobody’s talking to you.”

  I did just that and grinned my ass off. I looked over to my left and there was Parker looking at me, shocked. She mouthed silently How? I just shrugged my shoulders as if to say, I got lucky!

  The bell rang. I grabbed my backpack and went straight to my car. I’d DVR’d “Real World Road Rules Challenge” on MTV, which was my weekly treat. I wanted to hurry home and for once in my life just veg out.

  I made my way to the school parking lot. The parking lot was pretty small, which made sense since it only housed 20 students at night. I reached into my left pocket and took out my keys.

  “How did you do that?” Parker asked me from fifteen feet away. I had sensed her following me at a distance, too nervous to get too close.

  “I got lucky.” I liked the sound of that. Maybe it would be my little catch phrase. Every hero needed one.

  “No one is that lucky. Are you some kind of circus performer?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” I said sarcastically. “I’m a circus performer by day and a high schooler at night, because I promised my parents I would get a proper education. And clown school was full.”

  “Okay, maybe not a circus performer, but there’s definitely something more to you than you’re letting on. Not every high school student goes by the name of Spider, either,” she smiled. “Let’s get some coffee.”

  “We might have a problem. I think there might be a shortage of coffee shops around here.”

  “Very funny.”

  It was funny because Seattle is the coffeehouse capital of the world. But she understood. Jokes are better when you don’t have to explain them, and she’d finally caught on that I’m a witty guy. At least when I’m not ripping somebody’s neck open and sucking out their life.

  “C’mon,” she said. “I know a place called ‘Bo Knows Coffee!’”

  “Who’s Bo?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I guess he was some kinda sport’s star from the 80’s.”

  “Alright, I’ll go. But let’s make it quick.”

  “Oh, does the Spider have a web to weave?” she joked.

  “Not exactly, I just want to watch a TV show.”

  “Are you kidding? You would rather watc
h a stupid show than spend time with a beautiful woman?”

  I snorted. “Beautiful woman?”

  “Well, what would you call me?”

  I smiled. She wasn’t a woman yet, but she was half right. I never had a girl care if I thought she was pretty.

  “You’re cute,” I said, patting her head, “like a tarantula.”

  “Man, you’re weird.”

  “They don’t call me Spider for nothing,” I said. “Get in and let’s go.”

  Bad Blood

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  About the Authors:

  Scott Nicholson is author of 17 books, including the bestselling Kindle thrillers Disintegration and The Red Church. He also portrays the comic book character The Digger and spends spare time revising his own epitaph. Learn more at www.hauntedcomputer.com.

  J.R. Rain is an ex-private investigator who now lives in a small house on a small island with his small dog, Sadie, who has more energy than Robin Williams. Please visit him at www.jrrain.com.