Part 3 (Jixanny Prompt Three: Training a Dog or Pet or Other Animal)
March 20
The afternoon sun was starting to cast long, spindly shadows across Old Telegraph Road as three bikes skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust. Bobby Belden wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, his chest heaving. To his left and right, Larry and Terry Lynch were already leaning their bikes against rusted fence posts, flashing identical, mischievous grins.
“Okay,” Larry declared, pointing a finger toward the dilapidated old barn. The painted wood was peeling badly. It might have been red at one point, but it had faded to a dull rust color after years of exposure to the elements coupled with a lack of upkeep and care. “I dare you guys. Double-dog dare. We go in. We grab something to show everyone at school tomorrow. Prove we aren't just talk.”
“I’m so in,” Terry said instantly, his eyes bright with the reckless energy that always seemed to get the three of them into trouble. “We’re gonna be legends.”
Bobby didn’t answer right away. He looked at the barn and felt a sudden, sharp tug in the pit of his stomach, the kind of feeling he usually got just before a thunderstorm rolled over the farm. It was a heavy, buzzing disquiet that made the hair on his arms stand up. It’s just an old building, he told himself, swallowing hard. He didn't want to be the chicken of the group, and he certainly didn't want the twins teasing him all the way back home.
“Bobby? You scared?” Larry teased with a loud snicker.
“No,” Bobby lied, his voice sounding smaller than he wanted. “Let’s go.”
They crept across the overgrown yard. The closer they got, the colder the air seemed to turn. Ten feet from the gaping black maw of the barn door, Bobby froze. “Stop,” he whispered, his hand shooting out to grab Larry’s sleeve.
“What? What is it?”
“A horse,” Bobby said, his eyes fixed on the darkness inside. “There’s a horse in there.”
Terry stopped, squinting into the shadows. Save for the distant caw of a crow, everything was silent and still. “There aren't any horses out here, Bobby,” he scoffed. “You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not,” Bobby insisted, his heart hammering. “Listen.”
Deep within the structure, a sound rumbled out. There was a wet, heavy snort of breath and the unmistakable thud-shuffle of a large hoof shifting in the hay.
“I don’t hear anything,” Larry said, though he hesitated for a second more before marching right up to the threshold. He peered inside. “See? Empty. Just some old crates and a beat up wheelbarrow. Come on, Bobby, don’t be a scaredy-cat.”
Bobby forced his feet to move. He stepped into the cool shade of the doorway, and for a heartbeat, the world went unnervingly still. Suddenly, a draft of air so cold it felt like ice water hit him square in the face. He gasped, but before he could even shiver, it was followed by an inexplicable blast of dry, searing heat, like someone had just opened an oven door right in front of him. His lungs felt tight. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to run.
His eyes darted to the floor near the entrance. He didn't want to go deeper. He didn't want to see what was making that heavy, rhythmic breathing sound that seemed to be vibrating in the air all around him. He lunged forward, grabbed a battered, galvanized metal bucket by its rusted handle, and spun on his heels.
“I got something! Let's go!” he yelled, not waiting for the twins.
He bolted back toward the bikes, the bucket banging hard against his leg. Larry and Terry followed, caught up in the sudden, frantic energy of his retreat. They reached their bikes in record time.
It wasn't until they were back on the paved road, the barn a safe distance behind them, that Bobby slowed down. He looked at the bucket dangling from his handlebars. It was just a bucket - old, dented, and probably common as dirt. It didn't prove they’d been in the "haunted" barn. It could have come from any garden shed anywhere in Sleepyside.
But it wasn't the bucket that mattered. It was the wrongness of that place, the way the air had fought itself, turning from ice to fire in a second. He knew the twins would just say he was being "Little Baby Bobby" if he said anything to them, but there was one person who wouldn't.
He nodded resolutely to himself. He’d wait until after dinner, when the house was quiet. He’d talk to Trixie. She was the only one who didn't look at him like he was making things up. She was the only one who seemed to know that sometimes, the things you couldn't see were the ones you had to worry about the most.
________________________________________
The late afternoon temperature was dropping as Dan pulled his van in behind David’s little blue Corolla. “Well? Looks like we’ve got another crowd,” he said in weary resignation as he shifted into park.
David waved to them as he finished setting up the mismatched metal folding chairs and fake wood TV tray tables that turned the strip of cracked concrete behind The Crescent Moon into their office space.
“Let me get this straight,” Lisa said, taking in the long queue of spirits that snaked its way past the battered dumpster and down the alley toward the street. “They come here, they spill their guts, hopefully not literally, you provide a fix... and they just poof? Gone?”
“Yeah,” Trixie replied, shrugging. “Pretty much. I mean, the success rate isn't perfect. I’d say we’re at a solid B. A good 85 or 86 percent. Sometimes they just get cranky and storm off. Sometimes they say ‘thanks’ but they still hang around. And some? I think they’re just lonely.” She glanced at a recurring ghost near the middle of the line, wondering what his new problem would be for the day.
Dan slid out from behind the wheel and stomped his way over to the chairs and tables. “Good afternoon,” he called out. “We’re all here today, so please divide yourselves into three lines. And remember. No cutting, no poltergeist-style tantrums, and no whining. Any misbehavior and you’ll be asked to leave and return at such time that you are prepared to act like the civilized dead person we know you can be!”
******
“It’s the sauce, boy! The marinara!” The stout man in a stained apron waved a silver carving knife around and Dan had to resist the urge to duck, reminding himself that the blade would pass right through him if the angry little chef got too close. “I took the secret to the grave! Now my grandson is using canned tomatoes and dried oregano! It’s a disgrace to the family name! You go to Luigi’s Kitchen. The recipe is taped under the vegetable prep counter. You tell him follow that exactly, or I’m gonna haunt the health inspector until he shuts the place down!”
Dan nodded seriously. “Right. Yes, sir. Recipe. Counter. Luigi’s. Any chance a phone call covers it? We, uh, don’t really make it out to Buffalo that often.”
******
“Yes,” Mart said slowly, measuring his words. “I get the strategy. But... you’re dead. It kind of negates the whole survivalist thing. What are you going to do with more canned peaches? You don't even eat.”
******
“I... don’t actually know how to knit,” Trixie said apologetically, her voice softening as she looked at the grandmotherly woman regarding her with a hopeful expression. “But I think I might know someone who does. Half a moment.”
Trixie stood and leaned in the open back door to the store. “Professor? You got a minute?”
David appeared almost instantly. “Are you in need of assistance, Trixie?”
“That would be most kind of you, Charlie,” she replied, slipping into his formal cadence with a grin. “Any chance Grams is a knitter?”
“Oh, yes. She finds it quite enjoyable.”
“Perfect. C’mere.” Trixie sat back down. “Okay, Mrs. Potter. Run that by me again? I’ll repeat it to the professor, and we can enlist his grandmother who will find it quite enjoyable to finish the job.”
The old woman’s face lit up. “Oh, yes, dear. The second sock. The heel! You can’t leave a man with only one heel. It’s untidy. My niece Sarah tucked the basket in the attic. Page forty-two of the pattern book. They’re for the mailman. A Christmas gift, you see.”
“Got it. Done by Christmas.”
The woman sighed, a sound like a fading breeze, and dissolved with one last sweet smile.
“Are you really going to send his Grams to finish a stranger’s socks?” Lisa asked.
“Mrs. Potter's been hanging around at least since FDR was in office,” Trixie said dryly, turning to David. “I doubt Sarah’s even in the phone book anymore. Thanks, Charlie.”
David blinked, looking at the empty space where the ghost had been. “Uh, of course. I take it the situation reached a satisfactory conclusion?”
*******
"My streak! My activity tracker! I was at 499 days of hitting my ten-thousand-step goal. I went down on the treadmill at 9,992 steps. Eight steps! I just need someone to put my watch on and walk eight steps so the app gives me the '500 Day Warrior' badge. It can’t end like this!”
“A '500 Day Warrior' badge?” Dan echoed. “Sir, you’re currently a 'Zero Heartbeat Ghost.' I think you can probably let this record, uh, die with you?”
“It’s about the principle!” the man yelled.
Dan threw up his hands, “Whoa. Okay. Easy there. I thought exercise was supposed to release a bunch of endorphins and make you all happy or something, right? Didn’t I learn that somewhere?”
“Legally Blonde,” Trixie said helpfully. She leaned forward in her seat and peered down at the man lying flat on the ground. “Yes, sir. You do make a very, um, dignified corpse. I’m really not sure why your family went with a closed casket.”
“Oh, all right,” Dan muttered. He stood up and then climbed up onto his chair. “Listen up, everybody! This is Donny. He just missed earning his 500 Day Warrior fitness badge. All he needs is eight more steps, which I’m sure he’s already managed in the 45ish years since his treadmill took him out, but here’s what we’re gonna do. Donny is gonna run down the alley while we count off his steps and we can all be witnesses to his win.”
“This is not what I imagined,” Donny said, frowning severely.
“Oh, lighten up, Spandex,” Trixie said. “Go take your victory lap.”
Donny paused then began a series of stretches.
Dan rolled his eyes. “Dude. It’s eight steps, not eight miles. Go!”
Donny adjusted his headband and snapped the cuff at his wrist. He hopped down the steps and took off at a trot.
“1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8…”
The entire crowd cheered as Donny melted from sight.
“I’m not sure if they’re excited for him and his badge or just glad to see him go,” Lisa said, slowly clapping her hands.
“Let’s be charitable and say they were happy for him,” Trixie replied with a small chuckle. “Right. Next?”
*******
“He’s here, you know. The rider.”
Trixie stared at the slight woman. Her black gown, suitable probably for a funeral sometime in the late 1890’s, hung loosely on her frame.
“I’m sorry? I don’t know what you mean.”
“He’s here.”
“He who? Who’s here?”
“You’ve been warned.”
The woman faded away without another word.
“That was totally weird,” Lisa said after a long pause.
“Yeah,” Trixie agreed, thinking about Vernon’s ominous warning. “Weird.”
*******
“You don't understand! I had The Stand out for three weeks when the accident happened. It’s been thirty years! Do you know what the late fees are on thirty years of Stephen King? I probably owe the library the equivalent of a small hatchback by now. You have to find the book. It’s under my bed. If you drop it in the night-return slot, no one will see you!"
“Consider it done,” Mart said, his expression carefully blank. The young man heaved a sigh and faded away, his oversized flannel shirt seeming to almost hang momentarily by itself in the air, the last bit of him to disappear.
“Or probably done,” Mart added quietly. “I’m sure someone's found it by now.”
******
“Hold on! Hold on!” Trixie exclaimed. “I’m writing as fast as I can! This is why you make a will before you die! And honestly? No one is going to fight over your can opener!”
******
Dan blew out a low breath. He looked at the tall, flamboyant ghost in the red tailcoat. “Yep. Okay. Why not?” He hopped back onto his chair, arms wide. “Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! Welcome to the Greatest Show on Earth! I draw your attention to the center ring, where The Illustrious Alessandro will demonstrate his unparalleled talent as the most extraordinary lion tamer of the age!”
“Please tell me there aren’t actual lions involved,” David said, appearing in the doorway with a look of profound scholarly concern.
“Nah. Just a lot of whip-cracking,” Dan said, watching Alessandro perform a theatrical bow.
“I wonder if he was actually any good?”
“I’m gonna go with... probably not,” Dan said, eyeing the massive, jagged tears in the ghost’s silk coat. “Let’s just say the lions won the final round. It’s an educated guess.”
“Hey,” Trixie said mildly. “It’s hard enough to train a house cat.”
“Aww. Don't give up on Clyde,” Dan laughed, jumping down. “You’ll have him riding shotgun on your broomstick in no time. I have faith.”
Lisa’s head whipped around, her hairbow bobbing wildly. “No way! Do you really fly on a broom? For real?”
“Yeah... no,” Trixie sighed, shooting Dan an exasperated look. “But please don’t give Mart any ideas...”
________________________________________
Wimpy’s Diner was a beacon of neon light against the deepening blue of the Sleepyside night. Built from a refurbished, silver-sided railroad car, the diner was packed with a typical Friday night crowd.
Trixie, Dan, and Mart placed their orders at the counter then slid into the deep red vinyl booth where Honey, Di, and Lester Mundy were already waiting.
“Can he see me?” Lisa wondered, waving a hand in front of Lester’s face. He frowned and his eyes narrowed.
“No, he can’t,” Trixie said, “but I’m thinking he’s got some idea you’re here.”
“Ghost?” Lester asked shortly.
“Yeah, but the friendly kind. She’s cool.”
“This place is totally rad,” Lisa said, glancing around. “My best friends used to always want to hang out at the Orange Julius, but Wimpy’s is way better.”
Sitting opposite Trixie, Lester looked especially tired, she thought. His family and the Beldens had spent centuries locked in a bitter, Hatfield-and-McCoy style feud, but since the "new reality" had set in for the current generation, they’d traded their ancestors' grudges for a wary alliance. While the Mundy line lacked the raw, conduit power of the Beldens, they were experts in the protective arts. She wondered if he’d been extra busy with the supernatural side of Sleepyside, just as they’d been.
“You’re quiet tonight, Les,” Dan noted, dipping a fry into a pool of ketchup. “Poltergeists giving you a headache?”
Lester rubbed his temples. Although he couldn't see the spirits he knew were all around them, he was a human barometer for the "heavy" energy that malevolent entities left behind. “I’ve been having these dreams,” he admitted. “Troubling ones. Shadows, mostly. I wake up with my heart racing and the smell of sulfur in my room, but the minute I open my eyes, the memories just... evaporate. It’s like something is intentionally scrubbing my brain.”
Trixie’s hand paused halfway to her milkshake. “Vernon came to see me. He said the word on the street is for everyone to get out. Like permanently. And I’ve got this feeling I can’t shake. Like we’re living in the season finale of Buffy and the Big Bad is finally about to make his move.”
Lester winced. “Yikes. That fits the dreams.”
“We need more intel,” Dan said, looking at Lisa. “Have you ever been to Davie’s club?”
“Not that I know of. Should I have been?”
“It’s where all the grim grinning ghosts come out to socialize,” Trixie explained.
“O…kay?”
“It’s a sorta nightclub,” Dan told her. “Run by Davie, the Little Person pirate. Well, he’s not really a pirate. It was a party costume. He was an actor and he now runs this club for ghosts to sing, get down with a bit of poetry jamming, and sometimes a dead killer mob guy turns up as part of a comedy tour.”
Lisa’s jaw dropped. “No way. Is there, like, a guest list or something?”
“Only if you’re dead,” Dan replied. “I was thinking we could go by tonight after we eat. See if Davie's heard anything more about this ‘warning.’ He’s the ultimate gossip.”
Honey and Di exchanged a look. “We can help from here,” Di offered, already pulling her tablet from her bag. “I’ve been thinking about what you told us. If your friend Lisa died in the eighties, there has to be a digital article or two in the Sun's archives. We’ll see what we can find about a girl with her name who disappeared during a pep rally.”
“Good,” Mart said. “Mundy? You want to join us?”
Lester nodded. “Yeah. My folks aren't expecting me home for another coupla hours. I've got the time.”
________________________________________
The drive to Davie’s club was quiet. The moon was a sliver in the night sky, and the streets of the business district were empty and dark. When they reached the abandoned warehouse, Trixie was struck by the silence as soon as she clambered from the van. Usually, the area around the club hummed with the faint, discordant sounds of a spectral cabaret - applause of various levels of enthusiasm, a stray laugh, or the painfully out-of-tune wail of a ghost trying to hit the high notes in Take on Me. Now, there was nothing.
“Something’s… not right,” Lester murmured, his hand going to the silver protective charm he wore around his neck. “Trix, I’m not getting any poltergeist vibes. It’s more like… a void, if that makes any sense at all.”
Dan pushed at the heavy metal door that was already partially open. It groaned on its hinges, the sound echoing through the cavernous space. They saw as soon as they stepped inside that the warehouse was deserted. The velvet curtains on the stage rustled slightly from a draft of air blowing through the nearby broken window. The mismatched chairs where the audience usually sat were empty and Davie was conspicuously absent from his usual spot behind the makeshift bar.
“Hello?” Trixie called out, her voice sounding small in the vast, empty room. “Is anyone here?” There was no answer beyond the hollow drip of water somewhere in the back and the squeak of a large rat darting away.
“Wow,” Dan said. “Now I feel guilty for making fun of that guy who kept butchering the lyrics to Thank God I'm a Country Boy. I’ll take him over this. This is just wrong on a lot of levels.”
“I’m feeling like this just can’t be good,” Mart agreed, as he panned his flashlight around. “Now what? If anyone has any brilliant ideas, this would be a great time to speak up.”
March 20
The afternoon sun was starting to cast long, spindly shadows across Old Telegraph Road as three bikes skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust. Bobby Belden wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, his chest heaving. To his left and right, Larry and Terry Lynch were already leaning their bikes against rusted fence posts, flashing identical, mischievous grins.
“Okay,” Larry declared, pointing a finger toward the dilapidated old barn. The painted wood was peeling badly. It might have been red at one point, but it had faded to a dull rust color after years of exposure to the elements coupled with a lack of upkeep and care. “I dare you guys. Double-dog dare. We go in. We grab something to show everyone at school tomorrow. Prove we aren't just talk.”
“I’m so in,” Terry said instantly, his eyes bright with the reckless energy that always seemed to get the three of them into trouble. “We’re gonna be legends.”
Bobby didn’t answer right away. He looked at the barn and felt a sudden, sharp tug in the pit of his stomach, the kind of feeling he usually got just before a thunderstorm rolled over the farm. It was a heavy, buzzing disquiet that made the hair on his arms stand up. It’s just an old building, he told himself, swallowing hard. He didn't want to be the chicken of the group, and he certainly didn't want the twins teasing him all the way back home.
“Bobby? You scared?” Larry teased with a loud snicker.
“No,” Bobby lied, his voice sounding smaller than he wanted. “Let’s go.”
They crept across the overgrown yard. The closer they got, the colder the air seemed to turn. Ten feet from the gaping black maw of the barn door, Bobby froze. “Stop,” he whispered, his hand shooting out to grab Larry’s sleeve.
“What? What is it?”
“A horse,” Bobby said, his eyes fixed on the darkness inside. “There’s a horse in there.”
Terry stopped, squinting into the shadows. Save for the distant caw of a crow, everything was silent and still. “There aren't any horses out here, Bobby,” he scoffed. “You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not,” Bobby insisted, his heart hammering. “Listen.”
Deep within the structure, a sound rumbled out. There was a wet, heavy snort of breath and the unmistakable thud-shuffle of a large hoof shifting in the hay.
“I don’t hear anything,” Larry said, though he hesitated for a second more before marching right up to the threshold. He peered inside. “See? Empty. Just some old crates and a beat up wheelbarrow. Come on, Bobby, don’t be a scaredy-cat.”
Bobby forced his feet to move. He stepped into the cool shade of the doorway, and for a heartbeat, the world went unnervingly still. Suddenly, a draft of air so cold it felt like ice water hit him square in the face. He gasped, but before he could even shiver, it was followed by an inexplicable blast of dry, searing heat, like someone had just opened an oven door right in front of him. His lungs felt tight. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to run.
His eyes darted to the floor near the entrance. He didn't want to go deeper. He didn't want to see what was making that heavy, rhythmic breathing sound that seemed to be vibrating in the air all around him. He lunged forward, grabbed a battered, galvanized metal bucket by its rusted handle, and spun on his heels.
“I got something! Let's go!” he yelled, not waiting for the twins.
He bolted back toward the bikes, the bucket banging hard against his leg. Larry and Terry followed, caught up in the sudden, frantic energy of his retreat. They reached their bikes in record time.
It wasn't until they were back on the paved road, the barn a safe distance behind them, that Bobby slowed down. He looked at the bucket dangling from his handlebars. It was just a bucket - old, dented, and probably common as dirt. It didn't prove they’d been in the "haunted" barn. It could have come from any garden shed anywhere in Sleepyside.
But it wasn't the bucket that mattered. It was the wrongness of that place, the way the air had fought itself, turning from ice to fire in a second. He knew the twins would just say he was being "Little Baby Bobby" if he said anything to them, but there was one person who wouldn't.
He nodded resolutely to himself. He’d wait until after dinner, when the house was quiet. He’d talk to Trixie. She was the only one who didn't look at him like he was making things up. She was the only one who seemed to know that sometimes, the things you couldn't see were the ones you had to worry about the most.
________________________________________
The late afternoon temperature was dropping as Dan pulled his van in behind David’s little blue Corolla. “Well? Looks like we’ve got another crowd,” he said in weary resignation as he shifted into park.
David waved to them as he finished setting up the mismatched metal folding chairs and fake wood TV tray tables that turned the strip of cracked concrete behind The Crescent Moon into their office space.
“Let me get this straight,” Lisa said, taking in the long queue of spirits that snaked its way past the battered dumpster and down the alley toward the street. “They come here, they spill their guts, hopefully not literally, you provide a fix... and they just poof? Gone?”
“Yeah,” Trixie replied, shrugging. “Pretty much. I mean, the success rate isn't perfect. I’d say we’re at a solid B. A good 85 or 86 percent. Sometimes they just get cranky and storm off. Sometimes they say ‘thanks’ but they still hang around. And some? I think they’re just lonely.” She glanced at a recurring ghost near the middle of the line, wondering what his new problem would be for the day.
Dan slid out from behind the wheel and stomped his way over to the chairs and tables. “Good afternoon,” he called out. “We’re all here today, so please divide yourselves into three lines. And remember. No cutting, no poltergeist-style tantrums, and no whining. Any misbehavior and you’ll be asked to leave and return at such time that you are prepared to act like the civilized dead person we know you can be!”
******
“It’s the sauce, boy! The marinara!” The stout man in a stained apron waved a silver carving knife around and Dan had to resist the urge to duck, reminding himself that the blade would pass right through him if the angry little chef got too close. “I took the secret to the grave! Now my grandson is using canned tomatoes and dried oregano! It’s a disgrace to the family name! You go to Luigi’s Kitchen. The recipe is taped under the vegetable prep counter. You tell him follow that exactly, or I’m gonna haunt the health inspector until he shuts the place down!”
Dan nodded seriously. “Right. Yes, sir. Recipe. Counter. Luigi’s. Any chance a phone call covers it? We, uh, don’t really make it out to Buffalo that often.”
******
“Yes,” Mart said slowly, measuring his words. “I get the strategy. But... you’re dead. It kind of negates the whole survivalist thing. What are you going to do with more canned peaches? You don't even eat.”
******
“I... don’t actually know how to knit,” Trixie said apologetically, her voice softening as she looked at the grandmotherly woman regarding her with a hopeful expression. “But I think I might know someone who does. Half a moment.”
Trixie stood and leaned in the open back door to the store. “Professor? You got a minute?”
David appeared almost instantly. “Are you in need of assistance, Trixie?”
“That would be most kind of you, Charlie,” she replied, slipping into his formal cadence with a grin. “Any chance Grams is a knitter?”
“Oh, yes. She finds it quite enjoyable.”
“Perfect. C’mere.” Trixie sat back down. “Okay, Mrs. Potter. Run that by me again? I’ll repeat it to the professor, and we can enlist his grandmother who will find it quite enjoyable to finish the job.”
The old woman’s face lit up. “Oh, yes, dear. The second sock. The heel! You can’t leave a man with only one heel. It’s untidy. My niece Sarah tucked the basket in the attic. Page forty-two of the pattern book. They’re for the mailman. A Christmas gift, you see.”
“Got it. Done by Christmas.”
The woman sighed, a sound like a fading breeze, and dissolved with one last sweet smile.
“Are you really going to send his Grams to finish a stranger’s socks?” Lisa asked.
“Mrs. Potter's been hanging around at least since FDR was in office,” Trixie said dryly, turning to David. “I doubt Sarah’s even in the phone book anymore. Thanks, Charlie.”
David blinked, looking at the empty space where the ghost had been. “Uh, of course. I take it the situation reached a satisfactory conclusion?”
*******
"My streak! My activity tracker! I was at 499 days of hitting my ten-thousand-step goal. I went down on the treadmill at 9,992 steps. Eight steps! I just need someone to put my watch on and walk eight steps so the app gives me the '500 Day Warrior' badge. It can’t end like this!”
“A '500 Day Warrior' badge?” Dan echoed. “Sir, you’re currently a 'Zero Heartbeat Ghost.' I think you can probably let this record, uh, die with you?”
“It’s about the principle!” the man yelled.
Dan threw up his hands, “Whoa. Okay. Easy there. I thought exercise was supposed to release a bunch of endorphins and make you all happy or something, right? Didn’t I learn that somewhere?”
“Legally Blonde,” Trixie said helpfully. She leaned forward in her seat and peered down at the man lying flat on the ground. “Yes, sir. You do make a very, um, dignified corpse. I’m really not sure why your family went with a closed casket.”
“Oh, all right,” Dan muttered. He stood up and then climbed up onto his chair. “Listen up, everybody! This is Donny. He just missed earning his 500 Day Warrior fitness badge. All he needs is eight more steps, which I’m sure he’s already managed in the 45ish years since his treadmill took him out, but here’s what we’re gonna do. Donny is gonna run down the alley while we count off his steps and we can all be witnesses to his win.”
“This is not what I imagined,” Donny said, frowning severely.
“Oh, lighten up, Spandex,” Trixie said. “Go take your victory lap.”
Donny paused then began a series of stretches.
Dan rolled his eyes. “Dude. It’s eight steps, not eight miles. Go!”
Donny adjusted his headband and snapped the cuff at his wrist. He hopped down the steps and took off at a trot.
“1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8…”
The entire crowd cheered as Donny melted from sight.
“I’m not sure if they’re excited for him and his badge or just glad to see him go,” Lisa said, slowly clapping her hands.
“Let’s be charitable and say they were happy for him,” Trixie replied with a small chuckle. “Right. Next?”
*******
“He’s here, you know. The rider.”
Trixie stared at the slight woman. Her black gown, suitable probably for a funeral sometime in the late 1890’s, hung loosely on her frame.
“I’m sorry? I don’t know what you mean.”
“He’s here.”
“He who? Who’s here?”
“You’ve been warned.”
The woman faded away without another word.
“That was totally weird,” Lisa said after a long pause.
“Yeah,” Trixie agreed, thinking about Vernon’s ominous warning. “Weird.”
*******
“You don't understand! I had The Stand out for three weeks when the accident happened. It’s been thirty years! Do you know what the late fees are on thirty years of Stephen King? I probably owe the library the equivalent of a small hatchback by now. You have to find the book. It’s under my bed. If you drop it in the night-return slot, no one will see you!"
“Consider it done,” Mart said, his expression carefully blank. The young man heaved a sigh and faded away, his oversized flannel shirt seeming to almost hang momentarily by itself in the air, the last bit of him to disappear.
“Or probably done,” Mart added quietly. “I’m sure someone's found it by now.”
******
“Hold on! Hold on!” Trixie exclaimed. “I’m writing as fast as I can! This is why you make a will before you die! And honestly? No one is going to fight over your can opener!”
******
Dan blew out a low breath. He looked at the tall, flamboyant ghost in the red tailcoat. “Yep. Okay. Why not?” He hopped back onto his chair, arms wide. “Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! Welcome to the Greatest Show on Earth! I draw your attention to the center ring, where The Illustrious Alessandro will demonstrate his unparalleled talent as the most extraordinary lion tamer of the age!”
“Please tell me there aren’t actual lions involved,” David said, appearing in the doorway with a look of profound scholarly concern.
“Nah. Just a lot of whip-cracking,” Dan said, watching Alessandro perform a theatrical bow.
“I wonder if he was actually any good?”
“I’m gonna go with... probably not,” Dan said, eyeing the massive, jagged tears in the ghost’s silk coat. “Let’s just say the lions won the final round. It’s an educated guess.”
“Hey,” Trixie said mildly. “It’s hard enough to train a house cat.”
“Aww. Don't give up on Clyde,” Dan laughed, jumping down. “You’ll have him riding shotgun on your broomstick in no time. I have faith.”
Lisa’s head whipped around, her hairbow bobbing wildly. “No way! Do you really fly on a broom? For real?”
“Yeah... no,” Trixie sighed, shooting Dan an exasperated look. “But please don’t give Mart any ideas...”
________________________________________
Wimpy’s Diner was a beacon of neon light against the deepening blue of the Sleepyside night. Built from a refurbished, silver-sided railroad car, the diner was packed with a typical Friday night crowd.
Trixie, Dan, and Mart placed their orders at the counter then slid into the deep red vinyl booth where Honey, Di, and Lester Mundy were already waiting.
“Can he see me?” Lisa wondered, waving a hand in front of Lester’s face. He frowned and his eyes narrowed.
“No, he can’t,” Trixie said, “but I’m thinking he’s got some idea you’re here.”
“Ghost?” Lester asked shortly.
“Yeah, but the friendly kind. She’s cool.”
“This place is totally rad,” Lisa said, glancing around. “My best friends used to always want to hang out at the Orange Julius, but Wimpy’s is way better.”
Sitting opposite Trixie, Lester looked especially tired, she thought. His family and the Beldens had spent centuries locked in a bitter, Hatfield-and-McCoy style feud, but since the "new reality" had set in for the current generation, they’d traded their ancestors' grudges for a wary alliance. While the Mundy line lacked the raw, conduit power of the Beldens, they were experts in the protective arts. She wondered if he’d been extra busy with the supernatural side of Sleepyside, just as they’d been.
“You’re quiet tonight, Les,” Dan noted, dipping a fry into a pool of ketchup. “Poltergeists giving you a headache?”
Lester rubbed his temples. Although he couldn't see the spirits he knew were all around them, he was a human barometer for the "heavy" energy that malevolent entities left behind. “I’ve been having these dreams,” he admitted. “Troubling ones. Shadows, mostly. I wake up with my heart racing and the smell of sulfur in my room, but the minute I open my eyes, the memories just... evaporate. It’s like something is intentionally scrubbing my brain.”
Trixie’s hand paused halfway to her milkshake. “Vernon came to see me. He said the word on the street is for everyone to get out. Like permanently. And I’ve got this feeling I can’t shake. Like we’re living in the season finale of Buffy and the Big Bad is finally about to make his move.”
Lester winced. “Yikes. That fits the dreams.”
“We need more intel,” Dan said, looking at Lisa. “Have you ever been to Davie’s club?”
“Not that I know of. Should I have been?”
“It’s where all the grim grinning ghosts come out to socialize,” Trixie explained.
“O…kay?”
“It’s a sorta nightclub,” Dan told her. “Run by Davie, the Little Person pirate. Well, he’s not really a pirate. It was a party costume. He was an actor and he now runs this club for ghosts to sing, get down with a bit of poetry jamming, and sometimes a dead killer mob guy turns up as part of a comedy tour.”
Lisa’s jaw dropped. “No way. Is there, like, a guest list or something?”
“Only if you’re dead,” Dan replied. “I was thinking we could go by tonight after we eat. See if Davie's heard anything more about this ‘warning.’ He’s the ultimate gossip.”
Honey and Di exchanged a look. “We can help from here,” Di offered, already pulling her tablet from her bag. “I’ve been thinking about what you told us. If your friend Lisa died in the eighties, there has to be a digital article or two in the Sun's archives. We’ll see what we can find about a girl with her name who disappeared during a pep rally.”
“Good,” Mart said. “Mundy? You want to join us?”
Lester nodded. “Yeah. My folks aren't expecting me home for another coupla hours. I've got the time.”
________________________________________
The drive to Davie’s club was quiet. The moon was a sliver in the night sky, and the streets of the business district were empty and dark. When they reached the abandoned warehouse, Trixie was struck by the silence as soon as she clambered from the van. Usually, the area around the club hummed with the faint, discordant sounds of a spectral cabaret - applause of various levels of enthusiasm, a stray laugh, or the painfully out-of-tune wail of a ghost trying to hit the high notes in Take on Me. Now, there was nothing.
“Something’s… not right,” Lester murmured, his hand going to the silver protective charm he wore around his neck. “Trix, I’m not getting any poltergeist vibes. It’s more like… a void, if that makes any sense at all.”
Dan pushed at the heavy metal door that was already partially open. It groaned on its hinges, the sound echoing through the cavernous space. They saw as soon as they stepped inside that the warehouse was deserted. The velvet curtains on the stage rustled slightly from a draft of air blowing through the nearby broken window. The mismatched chairs where the audience usually sat were empty and Davie was conspicuously absent from his usual spot behind the makeshift bar.
“Hello?” Trixie called out, her voice sounding small in the vast, empty room. “Is anyone here?” There was no answer beyond the hollow drip of water somewhere in the back and the squeak of a large rat darting away.
“Wow,” Dan said. “Now I feel guilty for making fun of that guy who kept butchering the lyrics to Thank God I'm a Country Boy. I’ll take him over this. This is just wrong on a lot of levels.”
“I’m feeling like this just can’t be good,” Mart agreed, as he panned his flashlight around. “Now what? If anyone has any brilliant ideas, this would be a great time to speak up.”