The Cranky Dead Read online

  Kerchack paused. The only reason she'd need a change of clothes would be if she wasn't going home tonight, but where was she going? One destination came to his optimistic imagination, but it seemed unlikely. She hadn't said anything about coming over to his place tonight or dropped any hints. He didn't want to assume, and he wasn't sure if she'd be offended if he asked.

  Confusion set in, and Kerchack felt his heart beating faster. It was like facing a bear and not knowing what its plans for you were. If it was hungry, you should run. If it were curious, you should just stand still. Only the bear knew the right decision, and it'd only let you know after the fact.

  Denise, however, was no bear.

  "You got condoms at your place, right?" she asked. "'Cuz I've got a real strict policy on that."

  "Yes!" he almost shouted. "Yes, I have condoms. Lots of them."

  He winced. That probably came out wrong.

  "Cool." She tossed a few dollars on the table. "But we better get going."

  Kerchack threw his half of the bill on the table, plus a generous tip. Halfway to his car, he realized it was a bit too generous, but there was no way he was going back.

  Kerchack lived in a small house on a half-acre of neglected, overgrown desert. The house itself was falling apart, a victim of his complete indifference toward it. It was all paid for, and he had neither the interest nor money to pay for its upkeep. The shingles were peeling. The walls needed repainting. The front window was broken and covered with a square of plywood. It resembled a dying thing, but some places, like some people, took a long time to die.

  He tried the front door. It was locked.

  "Damn."

  Denise came up behind him. She wrapped her arms around his middle and pressed against his back. "What's wrong, 'Chack? Forget your key?"

  He didn't have a key. He'd lost it a few years ago and never gotten around to getting a new one. There wasn't really a need.

  He pounded on the door. "Gramps, damn it, open up!"

  "Isn't your grandpa dead?" Her warm breath tickled his earlobe.

  "He is." Kerchack turned. Denise held him close and now she leaned against his front. He tried to move his hips in such a way so as not to prod her with his boner. "I've got a few ghosts."

  "How many?" she asked.

  "Five."

  "Five ghosts?" She whistled. "In that little place of yours? Must be crowded."

  "We get by," he said.

  "Who are they?"

  "There's my Grandpa, Joyce, Tederick, The Guy, and The Attic Spook."

  "Who's Tederick?"

  "My dad's old cockatoo."

  "Birds can be ghosts?"

  "Apparently."

  "Who's The Guy?"

  "Just some guy. Came with the house."

  "Are they going to be cool with me spending the night?" she asked.

  "Oh, yeah. No problem," he lied. It wasn't a big lie. Only Joyce would have some trouble with it.

  He kicked the door with his heel. "Goddamnit, Gramps! Open the door!"

  He put his arms around her, moved his hands down to her butt. His mind swirled with thoughts. Foremost among them: I'm touching Denise's ass. While technically not much of an accomplishment, considering the many hands that had been there before him, he still felt as if he'd achieved something spectacular.

  "Sorry. He's probably waiting for a commercial."

  "The ghost of your grandpa watches TV?"

  "All day, every day."

  The door opened. "Keep your pants on, son. Not like it'll kill you to wait for five — "

  Gramps spied the young woman in Kerchack's arms, and his eyes went wide.

  "Goddamn, boy. Is that a girl?"

  Kerchack ignored the question and pulled Denise inside.

  "Well, ain't that sumthin'?" said Gramps. "I thought you was gay."

  Kerchack stopped. "I've brought girls home before, Grandpa."

  "Only two and neither of them were nuthin' to look at. Thought you was just puttin' on an act."

  Denise laughed. "Your Grandpa thinks you're gay?"

  "You can hear him?" asked Kerchack.

  "Naw, just pieced it together from your half of the conversation. Anyway, I thought you were gay for a little while, too. In high school you were the only guy who didn't stare at my chest when you talked to me."

  Kerchack frowned. "I was being polite."

  "Holy Jesus, boy, what's wrong with you? When a girl's got a rack like that, it's a compliment to notice it." Gramps ogled Denise thoroughly and licked his lips. "Little more junk in the trunk than I like, but I could work with it."

  "Junk in the trunk?" Kerchack immediately regretted saying it.

  Denise twisted to try and check her own ass.

  "What?" asked Gramps. "Ain't that what the kids say now?"

  Something thumped the ceiling hard, and a low moan chilled the air.

  "Attic Spook?" asked Denise.

  "Attic Spook," Kerchack confirmed.

  "Oh, that little shit has been in a mood tonight." Gramps sat in his recliner and focused on the television. "Think he does it on purpose. Knows X files comes on at eleven."

  Denise glanced around the room. "Wow, your place is really neat."

  "Joyce does it," said Kerchack.

  "Maybe I should get a ghost of my own."

  The Spook thumped again and howled.

  "Maybe not."

  Denise leaned in and kissed Kerchack, lightly this time. She turned her attention to the television. "Hey, is this the one where Cancer Man kills Kennedy?"

  "Yeah, it's a good one," said Gramps.

  "It's a good one," echoed Denise.

  "Hell, boy, don't you lose this one. I like her."

  Gramps glanced from the TV to Denise's ass and made kissing noises. He'd been dead a long time now. Manners had never been his strong suit and being invisible hadn't improved them.

  "Where's Joyce?" asked Kerchack.

  Grunting, Gramps waved down the hall. Kerchack left Denise to watch TV and be invisibly ogled.

  Joyce was in the kitchen, scrubbing the already gleaming sink. The restless dead were generally driven by one or two passions. Clark had comic books. Gramps had television. Joyce was a cleaner. That passion defined not only their activities, but there particular talents. Clark could touch comics. Gramps could manipulate the TV just by willing it. Joyce had cleaning supplies and mops. It was a bit of a vicious cycle. A ghost could only interact with the world in a limited number of ways, and what usually started as a hobby while living soon developed into an obsession. Ghosts had a lot of time to pass, and only so many options for passing it.

  "Kerchack, you're home," she said. "How are you, sweetie?" She set down her sponge and kissed him on the cheek with her cool ectoplasmic lips. Her other passion, other than cleaning, was Kerchack himself. Joyce wasn't technically his mother, but she was close enough. She'd been his dad's girlfriend just before his father left town, never to return. She'd raised him since ten, and she remained to take care of him even beyond the pale of death.

  More than just seeing ghosts, he also attracted them. He had no proof, just a feeling. People around him who died tended not to move on. Most did, of course, but it was still an anomaly. Many families in Rockwood had ghosts, but none had collected as many as Kerchack. He felt bad about that. He wasn't doing anything consciously, wouldn't have minded if Joyce and Gramps one day decided to move on, leaving behind their earthly desires. He still felt responsible, if only indirectly.

  "What's that on your face?" Joyce ran a thumb across his cheek. She drew a spectral handkerchief from her apron, spat on it, and scrubbed his face. The icy spit of the dead made him shiver. "You're a mess. What is all this?"

  He gently grabbed her hand. "It's lipstick."

  Her brow furrowed. "How on earth did you get lipstick on your face?"

  "The usual way, Joyce. Y'know? A woman."

  The most puzzled expression fell across her face. "A woman?"

  He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, a woma
n. Long hair. Breasts. Vagina."

  She frowned.

  He sighed. "Vagina is not a dirty word. It's a medical term."

  "Doesn't mean I have to like it." She shrugged. "Let me see this young woman."

  Kerchack tried to stop her, but she was already through the wall. He waited for her to return. The Guy sat at the kitchen table where he always sat, reading the ectoplasmic newspaper he always read. The Guy looked up from his paper and nodded at Kerchack.

  "Hey," said the ghost.

  "Hey."

  "Girl, huh?"

  "Yes, a girl." Kerchack bit back his resentment. Was it really that unusual an event that he should bring a woman home? Well, yes, it was, but they could have had the courtesy to not mention it.

  "I always thought you were a gay," said The Guy.

  Joyce walked back into the kitchen. She wasn't happy. "Is that the girl who wore the witch costume? The one who wasn't wearing the bra?"

  The Halloween Costume Incident, while minor to everyone else involved, had burned itself indelibly into Joyce's memory. To Joyce, there was nothing more scandalous than a busty sixteen year old in an Elvira costume, firm bosoms on display, escorting a group of nine year olds on Trick or Treating rounds. Joyce had talked about it for weeks, and still occasionally brought it up as the archetype of all women of weak and unwholesome character.

  "She's very nice," said Kerchack. "Really, she's cool."

  "Yes, yes." Joyce snarled as she repeated the word, "Nice. I'm sure she's very 'nice' indeed. Just the kind of 'nice' girl all the boys love."

  "You don't even know her."

  "I know her type." She picked up a mop and started running it vigorously across the tile. "Easy girls who trade favors for anyone who will buy them a dinner and a movie."

  "I didn't have to buy her dinner."

  "Oh, good. Then I suppose she's not a whore, after all. Just a slut." She turned her back to him. "Much better, isn't it?"

  He almost agreed with her that it was a whole of a hell of a lot better.

  "Come on, Joyce — "

  "Oh, don't mind me. Just do whatever you want. You're an adult. You should live your own life."

  "Joyce — "

  She cut him off with a soft grunt. He tried twice more and got the same response.

  "You've got a girl in the other room, and you're staying in here to argue with your dead caregiver," said The Guy. "Maybe you are a gay."

  Kerchack almost argued, but The Guy had a point. He left Joyce to mop and sulk. He joined Denise in the living room couch. He put his hand on her thigh, and she ran her fingers through his hair.

  Denise said, "There's something wrong with your television. It won't stay on any station."

  "Grandpa's a channel flipper."

  "I wish I could see ghosts," she said.

  "No, you don't."

  "But it's gotta be kind of cool."

  "Hold on."

  Kerchack went to the hall closet and found the shovel. The metal was rusted and dull, and the handle was cracked. It'd always looked this way as long as he could remember, as if it might fall apart in your hands. Strange symbols were carved in the wood and metal.

  He returned to the living room. "Here. You want to see ghosts . . ." He held out the shovel. "While you're holding this you can see and hear ghosts. Be careful of the splinters."

  Denise took the tool, and Kerchack stepped aside to reveal Gramps.

  "Get out!" Denise jumped and punched Kerchack in the shoulder. "This is awesome!"

  Gramps nodded to her, but he didn't look away from the TV. "Hey, honey, sweet ass you got there."

  "So this is . . . what . . . like a magic shovel?" She punched him in the shoulder again. "You had a magic shovel, and you never told me! Where did you get it?"

  "I don't remember," said Kerchack.

  "Your pop got it at that yard sale of that there Egyptian archeologist feller," said Gramps. "Real nice feller. Came here with this mummified princess intending to bring her to life or some fool thing. I told him it were a stupid thing to do, what with all the obnoxiousness of all the women I'd ever known, and none of them were even princesses. But he said it were destiny, that the stars were right and he knew she'd love him."

  "Did he do it?" asked Denise.

  "Must've. About a week later Ms. Hulke found him dead with that dry ol' princess's hands wrapped 'round his throat. He drags her all the way from Cairo, raises her from the dead, then the ungrateful bitch strangles the poor bastard. Ain't that just like a woman?" He snorted. "No offense, young lady.

  "Anyways, that shovel is supposed to have powers over the dead 'cuz of them hieroglyphics."

  "What kinds of powers?" asked Denise.

  "I can't remember them all," said Gramps, "but if I recall rightly, if you use it to draw a circle in the dirt under the half moon and say a dead person's name three times, it can summon their spirit."

  She went over to the window and checked the night sky. "Damn. New moon tonight."

  "Too bad," said Kerchack. "Are you ready to . . . uh . . . y'know?"

  "What?" she asked.

  He jerked his thumb toward his bedroom door. "Y'know. Do it."

  She laughed. "Do it? Are you thirteen?"

  "You know what I mean."

  "Let's try that dirt circle thing first."

  "It's not a half moon. It won't work."

  "Can't hurt to try."

  "I thought you had to get up early," said Kerchack.

  "Oh, relax. We have plenty of time." She sashayed over, grabbed him by the belt, and pulled him toward the backdoor.

  Kerchack made a note to remind himself that the next time he brought a woman home to wait until after the sex to show her the magic shovel.

  "Do you think we can call up Elvis?" she asked.

  "It's not likely. The King is what we call a 'High Demand' spirit. It's easier to summon spirits that have a personal connection."

  "I love Elvis."

  He smirked. "You and fifty million other women. If you had one of his belt buckles or capes you might have a chance."

  She cringed. "Yuck, I don't want old Elvis."

  "The rule is only one spirit can be summoned a night, and an unanswered call still counts as your shot. So if you want to try for Elvis, go ahead. It isn't going to work anyway, not with a new moon."

  He drew the circle, making it big enough for three people to stand in on the off chance it actually worked. He always tried to give the ghost some pacing room.

  "Have you done this before?" asked Denise.

  "Couple of times. Sometimes, it works. Sometimes, it doesn't."

  He sat on the porch while she mentally ran through a list of candidates. Most were dead celebrities, and Kerchack knew the odds of summoning any of them were practically nil. He didn't discourage her because he just wanted to get it over with.

  She snapped her fingers. "I know. Remember Sam Haney?"

  "The science teacher?"

  "And home ec. And metal shop. And auto shop."

  "I remember him," said Kerchack. "He was a cool teacher."

  "The coolest. He got me into cars, and I never got the chance to thank him for it. Do you think he'll show if I call him?"

  "There's one way to find out."

  Kerchack held out the shovel to her. She took it and held it over her head. She didn't need to do that, but he let her have her dramatic moment.

  "Sam Haney, Sam Haney, Sam Haney."

  A wind whipped up, stirring a vortex of dirt around the circle. Disembodied shrieks, sounding as if coming from very far away, filled the air. The new moon grew full and red, and a leering face appeared on it like a jack o'lantern carved on a blood drenched pumpkin.

  "Is it supposed to do that?" she asked.

  The moon drained. The shrieks faded. The air grew very still.

  "Is it supposed to do that?" she asked again.

  "It never did it before." He took the shovel from her. "It's probably nothing big. See, it didn't even work." He gestured towar
d the circle.

  There was something in it.

  It didn't resemble any ghost Kerchack had ever seen before. Ghosts tended to resemble people, but this was nothing like a person. It was humanoid, at least. Tall and thin with a body made of intertwined thorny vines and a head like a red pumpkin with two black eyes and grinning slash of a mouth filled with sparkling white teeth.