The Complete Coffee and Ghosts

2. Giving Up The Ghosts-6

From the moment Malcolm vanishes into the trees, my world goes quiet. Make the coffee, I order myself. Make the coffee, pour the cups, add the cream and sugar. Move your hands and everything will be okay. Move your hands.

My legs twitch. It’s all I can do not to tear across the parking lot after them. But if the coffee isn’t brewed, if the containers aren’t out and ready to capture ghosts, then whatever happens to my grandmother and Malcolm will be for nothing.

I count the cups. I pull out extra containers and count those too. What I don’t count on is seeing the fluttering bed sheet, that pretend ghost, in my peripheral vision. I cast my gaze toward the tree line, then back toward the fluttering. My heart sinks.

“Bed sheets and bridal veils,” I say out loud.

That strange, metallic voice laughs.

“Vendetta?” I venture.

This time, there is no response.

“There are two of you,” I say. Has it been this … thing all along? I think I know the answer and dread washes over me.

“Ah, close enough, my dear. You are far cleverer than ... who is he, again? Your business partner?”

I clutch one of the percolators to me. It’s not much of a weapon, but the metal heats my frigid fingers, and the handle is sure and steady in my grip.

“You are not Nigel,” I say.

“Again, brava.”

“Who are you, then?”

That laugh fills the air. With it comes the absence of everything—the aroma of coffee, the saffron from the tea. It’s as if this thing—whatever it is—sucks up everything with a hint of life.

“It gives me substance,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “Not much, but I do appreciate your effort. You do make a damn fine cup of coffee.” A sigh kicks up some dried leaves. “I miss drinking coffee, almost as much as I miss walking. It’s strange, really, how much I miss the simple act of moving myself from one place to another. Of course, there are other … pleasures I miss as well.”

I scan the parking lot, but every time I catch sight of that fluttering bed sheet, it somehow whisks away.

“People imagine that to be ethereal is to be divine. It isn’t, of course. In fact, you might say it’s rather hellish, especially when all you want to do is stroke the cheek of a pretty girl.”

That bed sheet appears before my eyes. It flaps as if draped from a clothesline. An edge touches my cheek. Before I can leap back, it entwines itself around my neck. Pressure against my windpipe makes me drop the percolator. Coffee splashes my shins, but I barely feel the heat. All my attention is on getting air into my lungs. I clutch at my neck, but all I do is rake fingernails across my skin.

Then, in a flash, the bed sheet flies away, once again teasing my peripheral vision.

“See? It’s just not the same. Now, if I had a body ...”

I cough, unable—at first—to respond with words. I hold a protective hand over my neck; the other clutches the side of the truck. “Nigel,” I say at last. “You want Nigel. You lured him here.”

“With some help. You. His brother. That imbecile Doug. You see, my dear, for a ghost eater, I’m the ultimate prize. Of course, I’ll have to do a little housekeeping once I’m inside. Kick everyone else out, for starters—”

“How does a ghost get so powerful?” I turn in a slow circle. His voice comes from everywhere. There must be some sort of trick.

The stale silence of the parking lot greets my question. “How does a ghost become so self-aware?”

Most, I believe, run on instinct, my grandmother a possible exception. But this thing?

“I am older than your grandmother. I am older than her grandmother. I am older than you can possibly begin to imagine.” The voice fills the parking lot, seems to fill me. “I was here when mankind first crawled from the slime, and I’ll be here when you bomb yourselves back into it.”

“Then why would you want to be a puny human being?”

“I believe I already gave you my reasons. Indeed, I may have just added you to my list of those reasons.”

“Seriously?” My neck aches, but my words come out strong. “Is that supposed to scare me?” I pick up a percolator, although this is only a ruse.

“It should.”

I walk around the truck and open the driver’s side door. I lean in, as if reaching for one of the bags of sugar. The bed sheet strikes the windshield. I pull my legs inside the cab and slam the door before it can follow me in. I start the engine. I’m about to peel out of the parking lot, in search of Malcolm, when in the rearview mirror I see that bed sheet flutter and dive.

The tailpipe.

I shift into first anyway. I press the accelerator. The engine sputters and dies. I reach for the key, determined to try again.

“I wouldn’t, my dear. Carbon monoxide poisoning is a nasty way to go.”

I concede that this obnoxious entity is correct. So I blast the horn instead.

Now, in the side mirror, I see two figures. Both run. Both glimmer. My grandmother must be keeping pace with them, blurring their images. No matter what Nigel has done, I need to warn him. He can’t swallow this creature. This … thing will kill him, erase any trace of the brother Malcolm knows and—I suspect—still loves.

But I can’t leave the cab without the stupid thing choking me again.

“No, I’m afraid you can’t.”

“Stop that,” I order.

“I’m not reading your mind, not really. It’s just that all your thoughts play so clearly across your face. It’s like watching a stage actress.”

“Watch this.” I hold up my middle finger.

The entity merely laughs that grating, metallic cackle. The sound freezes both Malcolm and Nigel in place. Then they both race forward again. This time, though, it’s as if Nigel is bolstered by supernatural strength. He’s thinner than Malcolm, but his legs stretch farther with each step, and he outpaces his brother easily.

He is nearly to the tailgate when I fling open the cab door.

“Nigel, no!” I shout. My throat aches and my words emerge with a croak. “It’s a trap.”

I’m right. It is. But not in the way I think. That bed sheet bursts from beneath the hood of my truck and drops down on top of me. Someone screams, but I don’t think it’s me. My mouth is too full of what feels like mist. I cough and choke. I push, but there’s nothing to push against.

Nigel crashes into me. For a moment, we’re both trapped beneath a fluttering white bed sheet that is there, and at the same time, not there. But he’s done this before and knows what to do. He opens his mouth as if for a big yawn, and then I am free.

Nigel falls to the ground. His legs and arms twitch. I am only two feet away, but the chill that rolls off him is a force pushing me back. I can’t get close. I can’t help him. Malcolm catches me from behind, wraps his arms around my waist.

“The ultimate prize.” Malcolm’s voice is ragged in my ear. “That’s what he kept saying. The ultimate prize for a ghost eater.”

“A trap. That thing will ... use your brother, maybe already has been using him. I’m sorry.”

Malcolm’s arms tighten around my waist. He buries his head against my neck. “I’m sorry, too, Katy, for bringing this to you.”

I don’t want to watch, but know I should. If I must fight this sort of being, then I need to know all its tricks. Nigel rolls on the asphalt, through puddles of coffee and damp leaves. He clamps his hands over his mouth.

“He’s not giving up the ghosts,” I say.

“Is that good?”

“I don’t know, but it isn’t part of that thing’s plan.”

When I notice the darting glimmer, I can’t say. Perhaps at first, I only think it a trick of the September afternoon light. But this light has purpose. It moves and swoops—just like my grandmother.

“Oh, my God, she wants in,” I say a second before Nigel uncovers his mouth.

My grandmother dives inside.

This time, the scream is mine.