here, and knew it. Astrid sighed.
"Now that would be impressive." Susan raised an eyebrow. "Hello, zombie? I ate the bastard."
"Much as I'm enjoying watching Billy stuff both feet in his mouth," Astrid said, nudging me to shut me up, "Why do you need to hire us?"
"My basement is haunted. I need you to find out why, and what I need to do to stop it."
Okay. I didn't see that one coming.
"Are you sure this is a haunting?" Astrid asked. "A lot of the time people think they have a ghost and it really isn't one. Especially if you have an old house."
Susan sighed. "Look. I'm a zombie. I have a bit of a heads up on the supernatural. You are a vampire. You -" she frowned at me "are some sort of shifter, and whoever just popped onto the roof behind me is a ghost."
Ruth wiggled her fingers at us. "She's got me, there."
"My point is," Susan said, watching our partner saunter over the tarmac towards us," I know my basement is haunted. This isn't me freaking out over air in the pipes or the house frame settling."
Ruth flipped her red hair over her shoulder. "Why don't you show us the house?"
Two
A strid and I followed Susan in my car. Neither of us would be able to tolerate being in her car with her.
Ruth, not having the olfactory issue, rode with the zombie to get some more information from her. Susan had a nice little red BMW. I couldn't help wonder what the upholstery must smell like. Not even a human would be able to buy that car once she was done with it.
Our first technical difficulty started at the house.
Astrid couldn't go in. Since it had belonged to the guy Susan ate, and wasn't really hers, her invite didn't count. Apparently whatever governs that part of the paranormal law of reality didn't recognize ownership by eating your killer.
Since we'd never lived there neither Ruth nor I could invite her in either.
Eventually Astrid went back to the car to sulk, and Ruth and I followed Susan into the house.
The second technical difficulty hit me as we stepped through the front door. Houses smell, okay? They smell of the people who live there, and their pets, and the mud on their shoes and the deodorant they spray on every morning. They smell of wood and plaster and damp brick, and if you're really unlucky, mould and mildew. And those are the houses that haven't had a corpse occupying them for the past six weeks.
I took two steps into the house and bailed. Astrid strolled over while I was hanging off the porch, throwing up my last week's worth of dinner onto an unlucky rosebush.
"Vicks?" She shoved the blue jar under my nose.
"Whiskey?" I looked up at her hopefully, nostrils buried in the glorious scent of camphor and menthol.
She handed over the little hip flask without a word. I rinsed and spat, then took a large swallow. Mr. Walker, meet my tonsils.
"You going to try again?"
"Oh, hell to the no!" There wasn't enough whiskey on the planet. Ruth was on her own for this one.
Three
T he third technical hitch happened some thirty minutes after Ruth had gone into the house: it spat her out.
Astrid and I were sitting silently on the hood of the car, watching the house. Well, Astrid was watching the house, which was a plain white painted two-story clapboard. Susan had told us it was built in the 1920's, and while it looked good for its age it also showed the years in a settling foundation and bulging window panes.
I was watching the moon, just starting to rise fat and almost full over the down-town buildings. I'd be missing work for the next couple of days.
So I was starting to moon-dream, and Astrid was trying not to get twitchy over how long Ruth had been in the house, when a rumbling, coughing noise erupted from below the porch and a rolling ball of ectoplasm was forcibly ejected into the garden. On the bright side, she missed the rose bush I'd baptised earlier. As a
"Now that would be impressive." Susan raised an eyebrow. "Hello, zombie? I ate the bastard."
"Much as I'm enjoying watching Billy stuff both feet in his mouth," Astrid said, nudging me to shut me up, "Why do you need to hire us?"
"My basement is haunted. I need you to find out why, and what I need to do to stop it."
Okay. I didn't see that one coming.
"Are you sure this is a haunting?" Astrid asked. "A lot of the time people think they have a ghost and it really isn't one. Especially if you have an old house."
Susan sighed. "Look. I'm a zombie. I have a bit of a heads up on the supernatural. You are a vampire. You -" she frowned at me "are some sort of shifter, and whoever just popped onto the roof behind me is a ghost."
Ruth wiggled her fingers at us. "She's got me, there."
"My point is," Susan said, watching our partner saunter over the tarmac towards us," I know my basement is haunted. This isn't me freaking out over air in the pipes or the house frame settling."
Ruth flipped her red hair over her shoulder. "Why don't you show us the house?"
Two
A strid and I followed Susan in my car. Neither of us would be able to tolerate being in her car with her.
Ruth, not having the olfactory issue, rode with the zombie to get some more information from her. Susan had a nice little red BMW. I couldn't help wonder what the upholstery must smell like. Not even a human would be able to buy that car once she was done with it.
Our first technical difficulty started at the house.
Astrid couldn't go in. Since it had belonged to the guy Susan ate, and wasn't really hers, her invite didn't count. Apparently whatever governs that part of the paranormal law of reality didn't recognize ownership by eating your killer.
Since we'd never lived there neither Ruth nor I could invite her in either.
Eventually Astrid went back to the car to sulk, and Ruth and I followed Susan into the house.
The second technical difficulty hit me as we stepped through the front door. Houses smell, okay? They smell of the people who live there, and their pets, and the mud on their shoes and the deodorant they spray on every morning. They smell of wood and plaster and damp brick, and if you're really unlucky, mould and mildew. And those are the houses that haven't had a corpse occupying them for the past six weeks.
I took two steps into the house and bailed. Astrid strolled over while I was hanging off the porch, throwing up my last week's worth of dinner onto an unlucky rosebush.
"Vicks?" She shoved the blue jar under my nose.
"Whiskey?" I looked up at her hopefully, nostrils buried in the glorious scent of camphor and menthol.
She handed over the little hip flask without a word. I rinsed and spat, then took a large swallow. Mr. Walker, meet my tonsils.
"You going to try again?"
"Oh, hell to the no!" There wasn't enough whiskey on the planet. Ruth was on her own for this one.
Three
T he third technical hitch happened some thirty minutes after Ruth had gone into the house: it spat her out.
Astrid and I were sitting silently on the hood of the car, watching the house. Well, Astrid was watching the house, which was a plain white painted two-story clapboard. Susan had told us it was built in the 1920's, and while it looked good for its age it also showed the years in a settling foundation and bulging window panes.
I was watching the moon, just starting to rise fat and almost full over the down-town buildings. I'd be missing work for the next couple of days.
So I was starting to moon-dream, and Astrid was trying not to get twitchy over how long Ruth had been in the house, when a rumbling, coughing noise erupted from below the porch and a rolling ball of ectoplasm was forcibly ejected into the garden. On the bright side, she missed the rose bush I'd baptised earlier. As a
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