Ghoul Friend Read online

  Besides, I’d grown up in Texas, and as progressive as parts of the state could be, it was a very knee-jerk reaction for me to be nervous being openly queer in front of strangers until I’d sussed them out. And I hated that, and hated that even if Oscar had come over to me and slung his arm around my shoulder and announced we were together, I’d have been twitchy.

  Things no one ever explains to you about adulthood: you can be one hundred percent down with having someone else’s genitals in your mouth but still freak out about casual PDA even when you’re both very much into one another.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, realizing I had almost let the pause last too long. “Yancy’s about to show us to the bunkhouse, I think. Did, ah, did they explain our situation to you?”

  Mr. Carstairs nodded, lips pressed into a near invisible line. “And like I was telling Mr. Fellowes and Mr. Baxter here, your car problems ain’t normal. That’s Mason’s doing.”

  “Grandpa,” Yancy sighed. “Mason doesn’t do that.”

  I felt a shade off balance, realizing I was literally surrounded by people who were believers. Not well, maybe there’s something after this world but I don’t know, and it won’t matter once I’m dead sorts of believers. Not even I’d really like to see grandma again, so I’m going to let myself get conned by this charlatan believers.

  They were all, down to the letter, honest-to-goodness believers in what Oscar and Ezra did. Cautiously, I said, “I don’t know about the other things going on, but I can safely say our car problems have nothing to do with ghosts and everything to do with a poorly maintained vehicle that wasn’t meant to make a trip this far, something the rental car company’s definitely getting an earful about later.” I shrugged, the weight of Oscar’s overnight bag pulling hard on my shoulder. Whatever he’d packed in there had to be made of bricks. “We’ll be out of your hair in the morning. My sister is coming to meet us, and we’ll be heading out as early as possible.”

  Yancy and his grandfather exchanged one of those looks you see people give when you know whatever is about to happen next is going to end in a headache. “Yancy, why don’t you show the boys here to the bunkhouse?”

  “Oh, we couldn’t take you away from your party,” Ezra protested, twigging to the weird mood and the direction things seemed to be heading. “In fact, if you just point us in the right direction—”

  “The ground between here and there’s rough,” Mr. Carstairs muttered. “And I don’t think y’all realize just how many dangers are out there in the grass.” He turned his gaze to Yancy once more and Yancy sighed and nodded. “I’ll make sure Enoch is up at the main house by dark. Party’s wrapping up, so I’d best see to our guests.”

  The party looked nothing of the sort. If anything, it looked like it was ramping up. Someone had brought out a fresh keg, a giant tub of ice cream was slowly melting as one of the Carstairs men scooped out paper bowls full for a small herd of kids. More people were dancing, and the music was louder. I glanced askance at Oscar, who was looking out towards the darkened fields beyond the house. There was no point in trying to demur—I knew what was coming. Part of me felt annoyed, an automatic reflex and something I’d been trying to unpack for a few months now, since meeting Oscar. Why did it annoy me so much when he engaged in his thing? It wasn’t hurting me, and he wasn’t like the charlatans asking for money or trying to scam people out of their livelihoods with visits from the ghost of grandmas’ past. If anything, even if I thought it was all smoke and mirrors, he was giving people some peace of mind. And, even if he wasn’t doing that, he was bringing enjoyment to people who watched him.

  The rest of me was already giving in to what was coming. We were going to do a ghost hunt tonight, or he was going to do a séance. Either way, we weren’t getting out of here without someone talking to a dead friend or relative.

  Yancy Carstairs clomped across the strip of field between the main house and the bunkhouse with alacrity. He pointed out dark shapes to our right, proclaiming them, “The finest damned herd of Longhorn in the entire damn state.”

  Ezra slowed, peering out towards the pasture. “Aren’t Longhorns the ones with the, er…”

  “Long horns,” I supplied. “Often very long.”

  Yancy snorted. “The herd’s not for meat, so they’re pretty damn spoiled. Pops keep ‘em because he like the looks of ‘em frankly, and, hell, people expect to see some of these fellas when they come to a ranch out here, you know?” He slowed and looked back over his shoulder to flash a grin at us in the dim light. “We’re switching over to being a guest ranch right now. We used to be a beef and pecan establishment, back when my great Pops founded the place, but… well.” He shrugged. “The place used to run hundreds of head, back when my family first got hold of it.” Yancy sighed. “Times change, you know? And what with the whole thing going on…” he trailed off. “Come on, then. Just up here.”

  The bunkhouse looked nothing like I’d imagined. Hidden behind a stand of pecan trees, it was long and low but, instead of the raw boards or even logs I’d been picturing thanks to years of watching Westerns with my own grandparents, it looked like the offspring of the main house. Done in the same white clapboard siding with a pitched roof done up in dark shingles, it had a neat row of windows set at even intervals, each one with a flower box full of seasonal blooms. A security light flickered on over the front door, the shiny, dark green paint gleaming in the white glow. “We had it redone back in the spring,” Yancy said. “Gettin’ it ready for guests once we do our soft open this fall.”

  “I thought you said there weren’t any hotels in town,” Oscar murmured. “You’re a guest house!”

  Yancy grunted. “We’re not open yet. The bunkhouse is only half-done inside. You’ll see. And we’re waiting on our permits to get finalized before we can officially open for paying guests. But y’all will be fine out here for a night. There’re beds, and if there’re no sheets on ‘em, I can run back up to the house and grab some from the linen closet there.” He unlocked the door with a small brass colored key and pushed it wide. “Come on in then.”

  Inside, it smelled like sawdust and the faintest trace of fresh paint. Yancy flipped on the overhead lights to reveal a long, low-ceilinged space that was likely once a single, open room but now had a partitioned off kitchen with a small stove and counter-top fridge, a cozy sitting area with an empty television stand, and a dining nook tucked under one window. “Bathroom’s through there,” he said, pointing towards a closed door past the kitchen. “And there’re the beds.”

  A double row of full-size beds, four down each wall, ran the rest of the length of the house off to our left. Back when it was in use as a real bunk house, the entire place would’ve been just… well, bunks. No amenities, no attempt to pretty it up. Purely utilitarian and not meant for much more than a place to sleep and literally hang your hat. This though, was nice. And would be even more so by the time they were done, I was sure. It was charming, really, all glossy paint and pale wood, everything looking like it was lifted straight out of a home interior catalog.

  The mattresses all looked new, though unmade, but a stack of linens was waiting on one of the beds. “Thank you,” Oscar said. “We truly appreciate your hospitality.” He smiled, polite and sunny, before glancing my way and straightening his spine. He wasn’t asking for permission with that look but telling me what he was about to do, whether I liked it or not.

  Beside me, Ezra huffed a tiny sigh. “I knew this was coming,” he murmured, barely more than a breath of sound. “Here we go.”

  “I’m guessing you wanted to escort us out here personally for reasons other than avoiding a potentially awkward encounter with your brother,” Oscar pressed. “Because of this Mason Albright person, perhaps?”

  Yancy gripped the back of one of the bistro chairs tightly, staring back at Oscar with a penetrating stare before wilting in on himself and nodding towards the small sitting area. “Well,” he said slowly, drawing the word out on a sigh. “He’s kind of locally
famous, Mason is. He’s known as the Wandering Ghoul around here. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”

  “Briefly,” I offered. “My sister googled the area when I called her earlier and she mentioned it.” Okay, she gasped and shrieked a tiny bit, but that sounded way less professional. “She suggested we spend our wait in the area filming around town, maybe talking to the residents about the story.”

  Oscar’s eyebrows shot up and beside me, like he was surprised I was even mentioning anything to do with the show or ghosts. I wasn’t sure if I should feel offended or smug. Or maybe smugly offended? “I was about to ask if that might be possible,” he said to Yancy. “What are the chances people in Budding might like to discuss your local legend with some total strangers?” His grin was full-force charming. “I know you’re familiar with our work,” he gestured between himself and Ezra, “but I’d like to also assure you personally that we’d never do this to mock or belittle anyone. We’re not hoping to paint Budding as… as…”

  “Backwards,” I said. Yancy glared.

  After a long moment where Yancy seemed to be having some sort of silent inner conversation, he nodded, sighed well, and gestured for us to sit. “Mason Albright used to own this property and four others around it. He had a huge spread—not as big as some, obviously. When people hear ‘huge ranch’ they think like the Goodnight place north of here, or one of those Dallas monstrosities. But it was a big place. Ran lots of cattle. The best records we’ve found say he had two hundred head at his peak. Not the biggest herd this state’s ever seen,” he chuckled, clearly amused by the idea of that many cows being a lot, “but respectable for this area, considering he came from nothin’, the story goes.”

  “Is that unusual?” Ezra asked, fiddling with his camera and uttering a soft sound of satisfaction as it beeped once. “May I film you?”

  Yancy made a face. “I suppose,” he muttered after a hesitation. “Long as y’all aren’t going to, I don’t know, make me look like an idiot or something.”

  I smiled as kindly as I could muster. “Oscar and Ezra are very good at what they do, Mr. Carstairs. You’ve seen their show on YouTube, right?” He nodded, darting a glance at me from under beetled brows. “Then you know they’re not going to mock your beliefs or experiences.”

  Oscar and Ezra both stared at me, lips parted in near-identical surprised expressions.

  Not going to lie, I was a little offended. Did they—especially Oscar—believe I thought so little of them? I opened my mouth to say something, but bit it back hard when I realized what I was about to do: lash out to cover my own awkwardness, my own embarrassment that I had apparently made someone I cared about feel like I was going to belittle them and be surprised when I didn’t.

  “Well,” Yancy sighed, oblivious to the short, hard moment that had just passed between the rest of us, “Mason died in 1896. His own cattle stampeded, apparently. There were rumors they were driven to it by some of the farm hands or a jealous neighbor but that was impossible to prove. Cattle.” He shrugged. “They’re animals, aren’t they? Everyone thinks they’re these big dumb goofballs, but they can be downright mean if they need to be.” He sighed and scratched at his short, dark beard. “Mason’s not gonna bother anyone. He’s been around here so long he’s like the cottonwood trees at this point. Always there, part of the landscape.”

  Oscar nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s the best way to be, if you’re a ghost not ready to move on.”

  “Hm. And how… how do you know a ghost’s moved on?”

  Oscar’s brows arched dramatically. “Oh,” he sighed. “Oh… are you hoping to hear from someone, Mr. Carstairs? Someone you love?”

  He was in medium-mode. I mean, he was always in medium-mode, but this was Oscar turning it on. He moved to the small settee and perched on the edge, folding his hands on his crossed knee and tilting his head to one side in a sort of nonthreatening talk show host pose. I’d asked him a few weeks ago why he did that whenever he gave a reading and he said people expected it. “They want to see an attentive medium. They don’t want to know you’re listening to the ghost behind them or the one screaming in your ear the entire time.”

  Yancy raked his fingers through his sweat-damp hair and wilted a bit more. “I don’t think I want to hear from her, no. I just… want to know if she’s really gone.” His smile was thin and water. “Pops wants to know if she’s quiet.”

  The shift was subtle, but it was there. Oscar didn’t uncross his legs or untilt his head. Something about his gaze, though, grew keener and if I was one to believe in vibrations or auras or what-have-you, I’d have said it was suddenly brighter, hotter, whatever those things did. He was definitely on and focused on something I didn’t see or hear. “Who, Mr. Carstairs?”

  Ezra shivered beside me, rubbing his hands over his forearms and frowning. The room wasn’t any cooler than it had been a moment before, but he was definitely uncomfortable. “Need a jacket or something? I have a flannel in my bag if—”

  “No, just… not feeling well,” he muttered. He turned and headed for the rows of beds, leaving me with Oscar and Yancy. “Sorry gents, I’m just gonna lay down for a mo’.”

  That seemed to be a cue. Yancy shook his head and smiled tightly. “Well. My apologies, Mr. Fellowes. I shouldn’t be bothering you while you’re in these dire straits.” He straightened and gave me a nod. “I’d best get back to the guests and leave y’all to it. If you’re feeling peckish later, come on down. Party’s wrapping up, but folks always like to linger. Breakfast is around seven tomorrow. Don’t be shy about stopping in—don’t even have to knock.” He gave us all another nod and let himself out of the bunkhouse without a backwards glance.

  “That was weird,” I muttered.

  Oscar shook his head. He worried his lower lip with his teeth, staring off into the middle distance. It wasn’t his I’m listening to dead people face but more of an I’m making one of those murder whiteboards in my head face. The same one he made whenever he was trying to figure out who’d eaten the last of the Sour Patch Kids. “No, it was desperate. He misses someone, but he doesn’t want to know if they’re okay or still here. There’s no message he wants passed on. And the comment about Mr. Carstairs? It’s like the old man wants to make sure whoever it is, is gone. Or at least quiet.”

  “That sounds grim,” I muttered. “Odd choice of words. Make sure they’re quiet… not ‘at peace’ or ‘in the light’ or whatever?” I leaned against the back of the chair Oscar had chosen and nudged him. “Isn’t it?”

  “Exactly,” he said, lighting up as if I’d said exactly the right thing. “He’s hiding something about whoever passed and he’s wanting to make sure they aren’t going to talk.”

  “Did you stretch before that reach?” I laughed, turning to head into the bunk area. “How’d you get that from that interaction? He just wants some sort of closure from the sound of things. You’ve spoken to dozens of people like that over the years, right? They want to make sure Aunt Martha is in heaven or Grandpa is resting in peace and not peeking at them with their girlfriend or something…” I glanced back to see Oscar staring at me with an oddly crimped expression. “What?”

  He sighed through his nose. “Nothing. Just been a long day, is all. Did CeCe say when she was arriving?”

  “Around eight, if all goes well. Harrison is going to be driving her.” I checked my phone and saw I missed a message. “And the tow driver definitely won’t be here before nine, apparently.”

  Ezra, face down on an unmade bed, said, “He was at the party tonight, remember? He’ll have to sleep off whatever he’s been drinking.”

  Oscar made a noncommittal noise and headed for the bathroom with his overnight bag. I lingered, putting sheets on one of the beds before chivying Ezra to his feet and making the other so he could collapse face-down again. I hesitated. Did Oscar want to share tonight, or would he be expecting separate beds since we weren’t, technically, in private? The thought of Carstairs busting in to wake us up and finding Oscar
and I tangled together in the same bed wasn’t unpleasant, per se, but it made me feel uncomfortable. While I wasn’t closeted, the Carstairs bunch were an unknown quantity, and we were entirely without support or help if things got ugly. And I hated that I even had to think that, at my age and in this year. After another hesitation, I made the third bed and padded over to the bathroom door. The shower was running inside, so I nudged the door open a crack and called out to Oscar.

  “Be out in a few,” he replied over the sound of the water.

  “I just wanted to let you know I made up a third bed but if you would rather…”

  He was quiet for a few moments. “Okay,” he said. And that was it. I didn’t know if I should expect him in bed next to me, or to sleep alone. “Could you close the door? It’s drafty with the window unit running.”

  Oscar was much longer than a few minutes. By the time he came out, I was already asleep.

  He chose the other bed.

  “What the Hell is that sound?” Ezra groaned. “Christ, it’s cold in here.”

  I opened my eyes to see it was still dark out, though it had a definite plummy undertone to the sky that meant we were nearing dawn. “What are you talking about?” I muttered. “It’s quiet as the grave.”

  Oscar’s soft hiss came out of the dark one bed over. “Wait for it.”

  His voice hadn’t even faded before I heard it—the crunch of footsteps on pea gravel, then a steady thump-thump-thump of heavy boots on wooden boards. There was a moment of silence, then it started again. Pea gravel on the left, moving around behind the end of the house we were on, then the steps on boards near the front door. Then quiet again. “It repeats,” Ezra mumbled. “It’s been going on for about half an hour.”

  Oscar sat up, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Give me a sec to get my brain online and I’ll check.” He paused, then muttered, “Or try to, anyway.”