Spookygirl - Paranormal Investigator (12 page)

Since I had no intention of holding anything resembling a real séance, I was pulling fake details out of my butt. I ordered the goths to sit in a circle on an empty gravesite. As they watched in fascination, I pulled out a sandwich bag full of dirt.

“This soil was stolen from a fresh grave by my great-grandmother in 1907,” I said importantly. Really, I’d dug it out of one of the decorative planters in front of the funeral home that afternoon. “It has been blessed by, um, a dark coven. It will aid us in the invocation of the dead, and protect us from unnecessary harm.” I sprinkled some of the dirt around the outside of the circle of goths, all while somehow keeping a straight face.

Nearby, the ghost of an old man in plaid golf shorts and a polo watched me, shaking his head in disgust. Irma—she’d remembered our deal after all, thank goodness—appeared
by his side and whispered in his ear. As she explained what I was really up to, his scowl disappeared and he chuckled and nodded. Irma winked at me. A moment later I spotted Delores standing off to one side, too.

“Next, the flame of the living,” I continued. A bunch of candles would’ve done a lot for the spooky atmosphere, but I wasn’t about to set up a funerary fire hazard for the sake of Tim’s reputation, so I’d settled for a single black candle. I lit it and carried it around the circle, waving it in the air. “Fire represents life. It moves and it consumes. Its warmth will attract the spirits to us.”

The old man in the golf shorts cackled and drifted forward several feet, waving his arms and pretending to be drawn toward the flame. I very nearly lost it, but I set my jaw and kept my composure, carefully placing the candle in the center of the circle and pressing it into the earth to make sure it would stay upright.

Finally I produced two glass spheres, one opaque black, one clear. They’d been in Mom’s boxes; once upon a time they’d been displayed on a pair of stands on one of her bookshelves. They weren’t powerful or charged with energy or anything, she’d just thought they were pretty.

But the goths didn’t know that.

I held up the spheres in front of them. “Crystal balls,” I said. “This is how the spirits will communicate with us. This one means yes”—I indicated the clear ball—“and this
one means no.” I waved the black ball around for emphasis. Stepping into the circle again, I placed both balls on the gravesite, one on either side of the candle. Then I took my spot in the circle and made everyone link hands.

“Oh, spirits!” I said, pretending to concentrate really hard. “We humbly request your presence in our circle of invocation on this All Hallow’s Eve.” The wind picked up around us, which was a nice touch, even though it was a total coincidence. “If you are here with us, please make yourselves known.”

Giggling, Irma floated into the circle and tried to nudge the clear ball with her foot. Some ghosts have trouble connecting with physical objects, so it took her a few tries. After a moment, though, the ball shivered in the dirt. Irma tried once more, and this time the ball rolled an inch or two. Isobel stared with wide eyes and made that twitchy smile again; Charlene appeared about to cry. The other goths looked like they might go either way.

“Thank you, O spirit!” I said. “May we ask you some questions?”

The clear ball bumped forward again. It rolled in the direction of Charlene, who scooted back a few inches.

“Got any questions?” I asked the goths.

“What’s his name?” asked the guy who had jumped and clapped.

“It has to be a yes or no question, stupid!” Isobel snarled.

The guy looked embarrassed.

“There are ways to ask other kinds of questions,” I said, happy to contradict Isobel. “Spirit! May we try to decipher your name?”

The clear ball moved.

“Does it begin with an
A
?”

The black ball moved.

“A
B
?”

The black ball rocked forward again. I knew Irma was making up a fake ghostly identity; I just hoped she hadn’t decided to name him Zachary.

“A
C
?”

The clear ball moved.

“In life, O spirit, were you a man?” I asked, to cut down the list of possibilities.

The clear ball moved.
Yes
.

We went around the circle, suggesting male names that started with C, until Irma settled on “Charlie.”

“Charlie,” I said, “are you buried in this very cemetery?”

Yes
.

“Ooh, ooh,” the jumping guy said. “Did you die violently?”

Yes
.

Except for Charlene, the goths looked impressed.

“Were you murdered?” the same guy asked. He was really getting the hang of this.

No
.

“Was it an accident?”

Yes
.

“That’s not scary enough!” Delores hissed at Irma. Irma immediately rethought her answer and kicked the black ball instead.

The jumping goth hesitated. “Were you executed?”

Yes
. Oh, Irma was having some fun with this.

“Did you murder someone?” I asked.

Yes
.

“More than one person?”

Yes
.

“More than five?”

Yes
.

Well, this could go on all night. “I’ve heard this legend,” I fibbed to the goths. “There’s supposed to be a serial killer buried in this very cemetery. Even in death, he still seeks new victims. They say you’ll know he’s nearby when you hear his footsteps. Yes, that’s right,” I emphasized for the benefit of my life-impaired accomplices and hoped they’d get the hint. “His loud footsteps. Charlie! Is this why you are still here with us, spirit? Are you doomed to walk the earth in penance for your terrible crimes?”

Yes
.

Charlene stood up. “Screw this,” she said, her voice wavering. She stalked off.

I decided to work her exit into the show. Trying to look panicked, I said, “Our circle of protection has been broken. We must quickly tie Charlie back to his grave before he is loosed upon us!”

Everyone looked appropriately nervous, even Isobel. Heck, even Tim looked genuinely anxious, and he knew none of this was real.

“Repeat this with me,” I said. “Your time on earth is done; you must leave us alone.” I was pretty proud of myself for coming up with a rhyme—okay, a slant rhyme—on the spur of the moment like that.

Holding hands, the group repeated the line over and over. Now Irma really started getting into her role. Her face twisted in concentration, she reached down and scooped up the black ball. To everyone but me, it looked like the “no” ball had begun to levitate. Irma carried it out of the circle and paraded around with it.

The goths all looked as if they suddenly thought Charlene had been wise to run.

Then the footsteps started nearby—finally. They were heavy and solid; I could hear the grass crunch. Even though I knew it was just Delores stomping around as loudly as she could, the effect was enough to give even me a chill.

Isobel screamed. Yanking her hand away, she scrambled to her feet and took off, running as fast as her
industrial platform boots could carry her. The other goths, no longer worried about looking stupid in front of their leader, followed. Tim and I stood up and watched them retreat. Irma and Delores drifted nearby, both doubled over with laughter. Irma let the black ball fall onto the grass.

“That was really awesome,” Tim said. “How’d you do the footsteps thing?”

I glanced around, pretending to be afraid again. “I didn’t plan that part.”

“What?!”

“I’m kidding! Don’t pass out or anything.”

He toed the ground. “I knew you were kidding.”

“Sure you did.” I retrieved the black ball from where Irma had dropped it, then blew out the candle and packed everything up.

“Want me to walk you home?” Tim asked.

“Sure, thanks. There’s just one more thing I have to do first. Well, two more things.” I took out the necklaces and approached Irma and Delores. “Wonderful job, ladies. Thank you. Where do you want these?”

“Oh, I’m right over there,” Irma said, motioning for me to follow. “And Delores is two rows closer. We’ll show you.”

As Irma led the way, Delores floated along beside me.

“So pretty,” she said, her eyes fixed on the necklaces,
which glimmered in the moonlight. “My Henry never gave me anything this nice in forty years of marriage.”

“Your husband’s name is Henry?” I asked, thinking of the dead janitor who was now spooking around school, hassling me every time I tracked in mud or left fingerprints on a clean window. It couldn’t be the same Henry. Could it?

“Yes,” Delores said, still paying more attention to the necklaces than me.

“Henry Boyd?”

That caught her attention. “That’s him. How did you know?”

“Delores, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but your husband passed away about two months ago. My dad’s funeral home handled his arrangements.”

I thought the news might upset her, but instead she just scowled. “That can’t be right. I’ve been waiting for him for years. If he went and had himself buried next to his mother…Did this Henry need a haircut?”

“In the worst way,” I said, picturing Henry’s thinning curls.

“Thank you for telling me, dear. As soon as I find that deceitful old goat, I’ll give him what for.”

“He’s back at Palmetto High School,” I said. “You should be able to find him there.” I didn’t have even a twinge of guilt about tattling on Henry.

I draped Delores’s necklace over the plaque that served as her headstone. “Are you sure I can’t leave them somewhere safer?” I asked as I followed Irma to her grave. “The maintenance people will find them, or visitors will take them.” It was a shame the ladies couldn’t just wear their new treasures, but it wouldn’t be wise to have a couple of necklaces levitating around the cemetery.

“Oh, we know,” Irma said. “But at least we can enjoy them for a little while first. I do so love shiny things.”

She pointed out her plot; when I went to put the necklace down, I saw her full name and gasped. “Irma Morris? Wait, you’re Mrs. Morris, aren’t you?” I knew Irma had looked familiar! The last time I’d seen her, she was silent and still, covered in death spackle and laid out for her viewing.

“Yes, dear. That’s me.” Irma looked a little confused.

“My dad owns Addison Funeral Services,” I explained. “I did your de—I mean, I did your makeup.”

“How nice of you, Violet.” Irma smiled and patted my arm, a gesture that felt like nothing more than a draft of cool air. “I took a peek before they put me in the ground, you know. I looked very pretty.”

“You’re such a nice girl,” Delores added. “Come visit us again sometime. I want you to meet my son.”

Irma clucked her tongue. “Delores, your son is thirty-eight years old and has a potbelly. Violet can do better.”

Delores gave her friend an icy glare.

Before an old-ghost-lady catfight could break out, I said good-bye to Irma and Delores and turned back to Tim. He was staring nervously at the necklace on Irma’s headstone. Irma was nudging it with her toe, making it move back and forth so that it twinkled in the moonlight.

“Oh, come on,” I said as I hoisted the messenger bag over my shoulder and started for home. “You can’t tell me you’re not getting at least a little used to this stuff by now.”

Tim still seemed a little jumpy. “That wasn’t…I mean, that wasn’t really Charlie back there, was it?”

“There is no Charlie.”

“Are you sure?”

“You really think a serial killer named Charlie would be interested in cheap costume jewelry from the mall?”

“Well, you never know.”

I gave him an exasperated glance. I guess séances—even the fake kind—aren’t for everyone.

After Halloween night, I was unwilling royalty among the goths. I guess my faux séance had truly impressed them, or else they were terrified I’d sic the ghost of Charlie the serial killer on them if they didn’t kiss my butt a little. Either way, they did their best to welcome me into their ranks no matter how hard I resisted, and Isobel tolerated Tim because he was my friend. I put up with all of it because Tim was in black-eyeliner heaven.

(Okay, and because it’s nice to be adored instead of mocked, no matter who’s doing the adoring.)

The following Monday, Tim and I were on the second floor of the east building, heading to the library for lunch. As we passed a door that was slightly ajar, we heard a quick, conspiratorial hiss. It was Derek, the jumping goth, peeking out from behind the door.

“Come here.”

The door led to one of the emergency stairwells that allowed access to the roof, which was why students weren’t normally allowed to use it. The fire code prohibited the school from keeping the stairwells locked, but the doors were equipped with alarms to keep anyone from sneaking in. Except for this door, apparently. When I asked Derek, he explained that the stairwell’s alarm had been broken since last spring.

“The administration’s too busy with important crap like dress code violations and football games to notice,” he said, smirking.

The trapdoor to the roof was already open; we followed Derek up the ladder and found the rest of the goths already there, shading themselves from the sun with umbrellas and passing around a bottle of what had to be industrial-strength sunscreen.

We sat down with them; they weren’t my favorite people to spend a lunch period with, but the breeze felt so nice that I didn’t care about the company. The first cold front of the fall had moved through over the weekend, and the weather was surprisingly cool—for Florida, at least—and pleasant. It did seem like an awfully sunny choice for a bunch of creatures of the night, but I guess the roof’s isolation in an otherwise overcrowded school was worth a little sun exposure.

“You okay up here, Mister Half Vampire?” I asked Tim.

He put on his sunglasses and held up his hand, shielding part of his face. “I’ll be fine.”

“We spend lunch up here every day,” Derek said, sitting beside us, “except when it looks like it might rain. Charlene’s afraid of getting hit by lightning.”