Page 18 of Hot Ghost Summer

My vision narrows to a pinprick. A pinprick that contains only the scorched outline of Hollis’s body. And whatever that small, black item is in its centre.

With trepidation, I shuffle until my knees almost touch the streaks of soot, and I can better see the palm-sized, rubber rectangle that rests in the centre. I tilt my head as I work out what it is.

Hollis’s phone!

Somehow, this little device survived whatever paranormal and apocalyptic event happened to his body. I shoot my arm out to grab it, then freeze with my fingers hovering in midair. What if it’s a trap? What if Hollis is here, waiting for me, and he’s really mad about the whole thing? What if the ghost left it here to lure me in like a hapless fisherman to a siren song?

I look around again, but aside from my own suffocating guilt, I can’t see or feel anything, so I snatch up the phone and brace myself.

When no great mousetrap drops from the sky, like in the board game I used to play with my sister when we were kids, a relieved chuckle escapes.

“Ha!” I blurt out.

Instantly, my shoulders hunch up around my ears, and the memory of Hollis’s hand clamping over my mouth makes a visceral resurgence.

Cringing, I whisper, “Sorry! Sorry, I’m new. First day. I’ll get better, I promise.”

Shuffling away from the macabre outline of Hollis’s body, I check his phone. The screen lights up, but with no signal all it can do is display the time, which I note is accurate.

My focus returns to the scorch mark, and my breath catches on a hiccup.

If Hollis were still alive, and had crawled or limped to get help, he’d have taken his phone, right? Especially because it looks like it still works—although how it survived I have no clue. So, this must mean that Hollis is really dead.

Even though I spent the afternoon working through that thought, being here now—and holding the evidence in my hands—hits differently.

My watery gaze drifts out across the unfinished floor to the trees in the park, which still have most of their leaves despite that it’s late September and which swallow the hustle and bustle of central Cockfosters. The quiet here is almost peaceful—it must be the orientation of the building.

Taking my cap off, I scratch at my scalp through my floppy hair, and the grown-out bleached-blond tips fall into my eyes. I’d come here to try and rectify what happened, to reunite Hollis’s soul with his body, but obviously that’s not happening because there isn’t one.

I hold his phone to my chest while I observe a minute of silent remembrance.

On the off chance that my nan was right, however, and Hollis is lingering, I talk to him. Maybe I can offer some comfort.

“I’m sorry that you’re dead.” My face contorts into a grimace, and my nose wrinkles. “I mean, I hope you can move on soon, and don’t become a building-rattler like whoever haunts this one. And I’m sorry I sang the Ghostbusters theme tune. I thought because it was daytime, that things would be fine.

“In my interview, when Mister Pickett asked me if I believed in ghosts, I just kind o’ shrugged. I’ve never seen one, you see, but I always thought the idea o’ them was cool. But between you and me, I don’t think he was going t’ give me the job until he saw that I had firearms training through the cadets, and that I’m willing t’ work antisocial hours.

“He thought you’d be the perfect match for me—said I couldn’t have wished for someone better t’ show me the ropes. So, like, I really am sorry.”

I sniff and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.

“First thing in the morning, I’m going t’ go and see Mister Pickett in person. Try t’ get everything straightened out. Then maybe, if you are hanging out around here, you won’t have t’ do it for long.”

My mind now made up, and with one last long look out over the nearby trees silhouetted by the city behind them, I stand and pocket Hollis’s phone. Well, I try to. That’s a ridiculously heavy case he’s got on it, and when it lands at the bottom of my pocket, it threatens to pull my shorts down. So I grip it between my teeth instead and make my way back down the ladder.

Depositing the high-vis-wrapped plasma ray back inside the ExorSquad bag, I transfer Hollis’s phone to my free hand and stride across what will one day be Bowen’s Plaza—with its posh concrete, glass, and metal offices. A place where someone like me will never have reason to be.

When I get to the gate, I loop the chain back through both halves to give the illusion that it’s secure. While I’m doing so, Hollis’s phone screen lights up.

Finally in range of a signal, all his alerts and notifications come through. This is weird. People are trying to get in touch with him, but he’s dead, and—probably—they don’t know that.

Should I tell them?

A message flashes up that reads:

You killed me, Vollkoffer.

Who is Vollkoffer? It sounds Austrian, and this is Hollis’s phone. Oh my god! Did Hollis get someone killed? And now Hollis is dead too. What are the chances?