Page 46 of Hot Ghost Summer

An angry ghost.

My heart pounds, blood rushes through my ears, and shallow breaths fuel my thoughts as I glance over at the laptop.

An angry ghost… who’s fixated on me. Who enjoys terrorising only me. Who can’t leave me…

A cold shiver trills up my spine and raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

The other day, in the laundrette, I thought it strange that he came back—but what if he’d had no choice? What if he couldn’t leave because he’s stuck with me?

I’ve seen the film.

My vision blurs and swims as lightheadedness washes over me.

I know what he is. Poltergeist.

The handbook had said to deliberately annoy him. To provoke him.

I swallow a nauseating mix of bile and anxiety.

What if Hollis is quiet now because he’s lulling me into a false sense of security? What if he’s waiting until my guard is down to strike?

Consequences, he’d told me. And fuck, because if he is a Dom—if I wasn’t wrong about that—then he’s more patient than I am. He’ll bide his time. Punish me when I least expect it.

The scorched, spiderweb crack across the control panel of the microwave haunts me. If he can do that to an appliance, what might he do to me?

Every ghost film I’ve ever watched races through my mind, and I turn in a slow circle looking at everything through new eyes.

I can’t let him know that I know.

I’ve tried both sage and salt; they didn’t work. But I need to do something. Anything. My gaze lands on the pan of leftover water. It worked in The Exorcist.

Improvising, I turn down the volume on my phone, select “Gangsta’s Paradise” to play, then balance it face down on the lip of the pan. I don’t know if only a priest can make holy water, but I don’t have one of those right now.

While it plays, I rummage in the junk drawer until I find a roll of tape, then bite off four-inch lengths to secure all my cabinet doors shut with. There’ll be no building-rattling or knife-throwing in here, thank you very much.

When the song finishes, I repeat the prayer from the intro one final time then take hold of the pan handle. Please work.

Keeping my back to Hollis’s laptop, I plunge the fingers of my free hand into the newly devout water, then whirl and flick. And flick again. And flick some more.

“The power of Christ compels you!” I yell at his laptop.

Hollis doesn’t comment, but the folders on the screen stop opening and closing. My victory smile splits my face. It’s working!

Dipping my hand back into the pan of holy water, I repeat the process with his phone. The water droplets warp and magnify the colours on its screen when he messages.

What are you doing?

“Oh, so now you want t’ talk t’ me?” I flick more water right at his lens.

Enough, Theo.

I glare. “Why? Because something’s finally working?” I splash some water up at the bulb, and some more at the microwave. “Evil spirits aren’t welcome ’ere. Neither are arseholes.”

Put the water down before you start a fire, brat.

“You can’t tell me what t’ do—you’re dead.”

And you’re a liability with a mouth that keeps filing complaints against my self-control.