Ghoul Friend Page 4

  “Son, what the Hell are you doing?”

  I nearly shouted, managing to swallow the sound just in time as I spun to face the man who’d managed to come up behind me.

  On a fucking horse.

  Because Texas.

  The man, wearing a dusty canvas coat and a battered hat, peered down at me from the back of his paint. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m just trying to get a signal so I can call AAA for a tow. Our car…” I gestured back at the obviously immobile car, and Ezra and Oscar who were now doing some strange dance for the camera. Ezra looked like he was being electrocuted, but Oscar’s movements had an odd formality to them, almost delicate.

  Or maybe it was the whole embroidered vest and lawn shirt thing he had going on, making him look like he was going to a fancy-dress event.

  The man grunted. “Not many folks come through town this way,” he remarked, leaning down across the horse’s neck to peer at me. “Y’all looking for something in particular?”

  “Er, no?” I took a step back, feeling suddenly too close. “We’re on a road trip on our way to a, um, job site. We were heading down scenic roads since they’re new to the area and I wanted to show them some…” I gestured at the brown, dry fields. “Wildflowers and such.”

  The man snorted and sat back upright. “Well, y’all would do best to stop in up the road for help. There’s a house about half a mile that way,” he pointed towards a slight curve in the road, where a small copse of trees blocked the view of what was beyond. “Might be able to use their phone.” He looked back towards Ezra and Oscar and made a thoughtful sound. “They’re… they’re bright, aren’t they? So bright.”

  They were done dancing and now Ezra was definitely mooing. “Brighter than you’d think,” I said, edging back again. Something about the man was unsettling but I couldn’t put my finger on just what it was. I wanted to run away, put as much distance between us as possible. Instead, I forced myself to stand still and scolded that niggling back-brain voice for being a jerk. He’s got to live out here. It’s not like he teleported in on a horse. Christ, Julian, get it together.

  “Not what I meant, but good to know,” he chuckled dryly. “Now go on up the road a bit. There’s a drive there. Old house, real nice. Go on now. Get off the road before dark. Wouldn’t want an accident to happen because someone didn’t know you were there.” He turned his horse, and they started walking across the field, back towards the copse of trees.

  The buzz of my phone startled me, and I nearly dropped it—it suddenly had full signal and a ton of emails and texts flew into my inbox, filling it up faster than I could read the notifications. Three texts were from Harrison, giving me a head’s up that Jacob’s team was definitely going to subpoena me and probably Oscar and Ezra too by the end of the month.

  Fun.

  Several texts from my mother, a few from old work friends, one from Rey which I deleted without reading, and finally a text thread from CeCe, giving us hints and tips about the vlog, reminding me to check in with her, giving me her own itinerary for the trip. I opened the last text to reply, tell her what was going on, but as soon as I hit send, the phone lost its signal again. “Shit!”

  “Alright?” Ezra called.

  I nodded, glancing around again as if I’d see some magic floating Wi-Fi or something. “No,” I called back. “Not at all.”

  He waved merrily back at me and returned to whatever weird pantomime he and Oscar were acting out for the video. My phone buzzed in my hand, and I heaved a sigh of relief to see CeCe’s name and half a dose of bars. “Thank God,” I muttered instead of hello. “Guess where we are? Go on. Guess.”

  “It’s not Brenham, is it?” she sighed. “Are you trying to make better time and skipping the sites I marked? You are, aren’t you?”

  “No. I mean, a little, but not why I’m glad to hear from you. The signal’s shit out here so I need to call AAA for me. We’re in Budding, Texas, and—”

  “Wait! Hold up!”

  I could hear her frantically typing and, a moment later, her whoop of excitement. “Julian, you accidentally wonderful curmudgeon! That is perfect! Budding, Texas. Home to the Wandering Ghoul!”

  “That is not a great slogan. Someone needs to talk to their tourism office.”

  CeCe snorted. “I need an address to find you at. Are you going to a hotel or…”

  “We’re on the side of the damn road,” I sighed. “Um, there’s a farm like half a mile up though so maybe we can use that as a pick-up spot.” Please don’t be cannibals and want to wear our skin… Damn it, Ezra, we’re switching to rom coms when we get to Denver. I gave her the name of the road we were on, and approximately how far we were from the highway turn off, and she promised she’d work on a tow for us ASAP. “But Julian, I’m serious. Wandering Ghoul. It’ll be gold for the promos. Don’t make me call Ezra.”

  “Good luck with that,” I muttered, hanging up as the phone started to fritz again.

  I looked towards the trees and there was the man on the horse. He raised one arm in salute before turning and disappearing into the shadows of the copse.

  An icy finger of something unpleasant ran down the back of my neck, waking up those ancient fight-or-flight instincts we all have and pushing the switch firmly to flight. I started walking back towards the car a little quicker than I’d walked away, my leg muscles fairly twitching with the urge to just run and get away from that feeling that was still settled just below my skull, that icy touch of unpleasantness that signaled some subconscious awareness that something was wrong. Ezra and Oscar had stopped filming and were watching me trudge back, Ezra with a definite air of boredom and Oscar more hesitantly, more concerned.

  Guilt began to nibble away at me as I dragged myself back to the car. Once we were somewhere with air conditioning, I owed Oscar an apology.

  But only after we’d cooled off physically because I was pretty sure I’d murder someone if we had to stay one minute longer in the heat.

  Chapter 4

  Oscar

  Ezra’s narration of something to do with the grass and how he’d once heard grasshoppers spit tobacco juice—thanks to his childhood fascination with Little House on the Prairie—had become a sort of soft drone in the background. The heat of the late afternoon slipped into the heat of early evening, the only difference a slight hint of moisture in the air. I knew I was being foolish to hope for rain, or at least a nice cool-down, but a boy can dream. The soporific nature of the moment had let my mind wander in a thick, hazy way towards My Problem (capitals inherent). I’d told a bit of a fib to Ezra and an outright whopper to Julian. It wasn’t just a “bit difficult” communicating with spirits since Bettina.

  It was getting to be impossible.

  It’d begun with connectivity issues—yes, just like with Wi-Fi. For ages—pretty much my entire life I’d been able to just talk to the spirits, or at least recognize their presence, with barely any effort. Sure, sometimes I had to coax them a bit, or they threw up their own roadblocks to keep me out of their business, but it wasn’t like My Problem. At first, it had been just a bit of a hassle. Stress, I’d told myself. Maybe, too much sex—something I wasn’t sure whether to be upset about, really. But as the weeks went on, My Problem got worse.

  I was worried that, soon, I’d be unable to communicate with even the most attention-seeking shade.

  I’d be not-me.

  “I feel like I’m always having to apologize to you, and that makes me think maybe the problem isn’t an us thing, it’s a me thing.”

  It wasn’t often I was startled but Julian managed to get me, his approach so quiet on the battered road that I didn’t hear his steps.

  Perhaps, it was less his stealth and more my absorption in my lack of seeing anything that made me so easily spooked.

  Ha. Spooked.

  Julian’s sudden (to me anyway) return from his Quest for Signal startled me out of the throes of self-pity. It took my brain a moment to catch up with what he said, and I’d apparently just been staring
at him with my mouth open like an absolute twat because he was starting to scowl, that awkward expression he got sometimes where it was obvious he was about to bluster and grump his way through a bit of embarrassment. His words sank in fast, though, as soon as I shook the cobwebs from my brain. “I think maybe you’re being too hard on yourself,” I said carefully, sliding from where I’d sat on the boot and dusting my backside off ineffectually—whatever made up the dust on the car apparently had similarities to super glue because it just seemed to smear rather than brush away. “Besides, it’s not like this is your fault. Cars break down. It sucks but it’s a thing.” The fog in my thoughts was harder to shake than I thought—it was like trying to run in a dream as I struggled to bring everything back online, so to speak, and face Julian. He was frowning, more at himself than at me, and fiddling with his phone. “If you want to blame someone, I suggest CeCe,” I said, only half-kidding. “If she’d let us just fly there, we’d already be in our hotel room and Ezra would be in his…” I trailed off, managing a suggestive (I hoped) brow wiggle.

  Julian sighed, shook his head. “I don’t mean the car,” he said. “I mean the other shit I keep apologizing for. The us things.”

  Ah.

  He took a half-step closer to me but didn’t reach out to touch me, despite the fact we were so close now. the last hint of his spicy-citrus aftershave under the heat-drenched tang of his sweat teased my nose, and the faintest brush of his breath tickled my skin as he watched me for some response. My throat was suddenly dry and tight. I swallowed several times before I was able to talk. “Julian,” I finally managed. “You’re not always apologizing. I don’t feel like you’re… you’re…” I shook my head, unable to find what I wanted to say. “I don’t feel like you’re hurting me,” was what finally came out. “We’re finding our footing with one another and, to be absolutely fair, we both came off one of the more fucked up experiences of our lives. It’s natural for both of us to be a little flaily.”

  His lips quirked just a tiny bit. “Flaily?”

  “It’s a word.” I sniffed. “Britishism.”

  “Mmmm.” Julian smirked openly at that. “Sure, must be why I’ve never heard it.”

  “Wait. What do you mean an us thing? I didn’t… You were thinking we had problems? Hold up, scratch that. That sounded wrong,” I said as his brow crimped and lips practically disappeared in a deep frown, an expression I hated to see on his nearly dear face. “I’m not saying it’s a one or another thing but just… It sounds like you were thinking we,” I gestured between us, “maybe had a problem. Like a problem.”

  Julian worried his lower lip for a moment, then sighed a gusty and deep breath of frustration. “I think,” he said slowly, “I’m picking the worst times on the planet to apologize.”

  “Hey—”

  “No, I’m not mad,” he promised, finally closing that distance and pressing a quick kiss to my forehead, sweet and somehow dismissive at the same time. “I’m going to try to get this stupid thing started. CeCe nearly had an aneurysm about the fact we’ve broken down here. She Googled. Unlucky for us, Budding is Home of the Wandering Ghoul,” he said in a cheesy telly announcer voice as he walked backwards towards the bonnet, arms waving to mimic… a ghost, I suppose. Or a chicken having some sort of a fit.

  I leaned on the side of the car to watch Julian mutter and fiddle with things, offering helpful suggestions such as, “You should wiggle the doohickey there. Maybe try reversing the polarity on the flux capacitor.”

  Julian didn’t reply but his raised eyebrow spoke volumes. After several minutes of what-the-fucking, he sat back and sighed. “I think I’ve done all the damage I can do here.”

  Ezra came trotting back towards us, camera tucked away in the pocket of his shorts. His shirt was already sticking to his chest and back, same as me. Julian looked mildly mussed but not as if he’d been ridden hard and put away wet. Ezra flashed me a bright, happy smile and said, “Just as an FYI, I’m not walking back to town in the dark, so let’s either get this shit going or commit to camping in the car tonight and draw straws over who gets to be the Final Girl.”

  “Final Girl?” I made a face. “What kind of nonsense is that?”

  “You know,” Ezra said. “In horror movies, it’s almost always a girl who survives at the end. She’s bested the crazed killer and has either killed them herself or made it out of the situation while all the others have been slaughtered.” He made a shrill, high pitched repetitive sound and stabbing motions.

  “Are you alright?”

  He elbowed me gently. “Don’t be a twat. You’ve watched the entire Halloween and Friday the 13th series with me.”

  “Is Alien a horror movie? Would Ripley be a Final Girl?” I asked. “I quite liked her.”

  “Her and Jonesy,” Ezra confirmed with a nod. “She’s the ultimate Final Girl, with the Final Cat.”

  “Final Cat isn’t a thing,” I muttered, getting into the car. Julian climbed in beside me and closed his eyes, lips moving in what I assumed was a silent prayer to whomever he believed in (that was another thing—I had no idea if he was religious or spiritual or… ugh. More things to dwell on.)

  “It’d be me,” Julian said with confidence. “I’m the prettiest.” He winked at me, the first non-scowl I’d seen on his face since Beaumont.

  “Hey!”

  Julian turned the key, and after a rattling shudder and a rather asthmatic wheeze, the car rumbled to life. It didn’t sound quite right, but it was running.

  Kind of.

  “He’d be the Final Girl,” Ezra confirmed. “The Final Girl is always able to get the car started to escape the monster.”

  Julian winked at me. “And, keeping with that spirit—no pun intended, gentlemen—let’s get the Hell out of Dodge.” He eased the car onto the blacktop road. We were all holding our breath, even Ezra. I could tell because he was uncharacteristically silent, though I did notice he was holding his camera up again, aimed forward to get the view through the windshield. We’d gone about half a mile, the car making a threatening rattling sound the entire way, when Julian sat up straight, his eyes narrowing. “Ah,” he breathed. “A Hail Mary.”

  On the right side of the optimistically termed highway, a wide dirt track opened. It took me a second glance to realize it wasn’t a road but a long drive, leading towards a well-lit, sprawling home. A white-painted fence framed the drive, and a gate stood open, a massive metal farm gate wrapped with colorful bunting, hung with a sign proclaiming Carstairs—1897. Gingerly, Julian swung the car onto the pebbly dirt road. It gave a mighty shudder and groan, the rattling sound now positively offensive. Julian gritted his teeth and forced the car a bit farther, just past the open gates, and finally pulled off onto the grass and shut off the engine. “Not to be stereotypical, but I’m hoping,” he said into the tense, burning-oil tinged quiet, “Texas hospitality is still a thing out here and they’ll let us wait here for a tow.”

  “Texas hospitality, huh?” I teased. “That’s why you invited me to stay at your flat for ‘as long as I needed’?”

  Julian’s lips twitched but he didn’t reply. Well, unless you counted that look he gave me as a reply. The one that made certain body parts heat up uncomfortably in the late afternoon humidity.

  Texas might be beautiful, but it was not conducive to feeling at all sexual without air conditioning on full blast.

  Ezra climbed out of the car, his camera in hand. “This is wild,” he muttered, though whether it was to us, to himself, or the future viewers, I had no idea. “Oz, got any reception on your phone? Mine’s got zero bars.”

  I checked, as did Julian with his own. “Weak signal, but yeah,” I called back. Julian nodded. “Julian too.”

  “Draw straws to decide who calls CeCe and who looks for a tow truck?” Julian asked, already opening up the browser on his phone.

  “Not so fast, Professor,” I scolded. “She’s your sister. You call her. I’ll google a tow service.”

  “She likes you best,�
�� he muttered, but had already opened up the keypad to dial CeCe’s number.

  The ranch was a riot of color and sound, tucked behind a thick grove of what Julian assured us were pecan trees on a gentle, downward slope. The winding gravel drive looked well-tended, more gravel than dirt and no potholes or ruts, like the people who lived here were houseproud. Our phone signals were still dodgy. but Ezra pointed out the devices weren’t totally useless—we could still use our recording apps, and they’d also do for EVP recording, in a pinch. Julian had left CeCe a message and sent a text to Harrison. “It’s past six, so CeCe’s either at some cocktail event or she’s locked herself in her bedroom with a face mask and a murder podcast,” Julian sighed. “What the Hell is going on here?”

  “Looks like someone’s birthday,” I said, staring up the drive at the lights and tent and massive barbecue thing that looked like half a barrel turned onto its side. “I really hope this isn’t a cattle ranch and they’re cooking the slow learners.”

  Julian inhaled deeply. “Might be beef, might be pork, but this isn’t a cattle ranch.” He gestured at the open pastures visible past the house. “That grass is way too high for a working cattle ranch.”

  Ezra shifted closer to me. “So, who’s going up to ask if it’s okay if we use their driveway?”

  “Hey, y’all! You from the church or the Rotary club?” A man in a grease and soot-stained apron, face red and sweaty, was lumbering towards us at high speed from the white pop-up pavilion stationed on the front lawn. Even in the late evening, Texas summers were hot, apparently, and standing over the barrel-o-fire hadn’t done this fellow any favors. “We weren’t expecting the first load of folks for another hour, not till the to-do at the church was done and—” he stopped several feet away. “Oh, my Lord! You’re Oscar Fellowes, aren’t you?” His face, ruddy and damp and oddly babyish despite his thick neck and buzz-cut hair, split with a wide, white grin. “I’m Yancy. Yancy Carstairs,” he said, reaching out and grabbing a hand I hadn’t thought to proffer yet. “I’ll be jiggered.”