Page 83 of Hot Ghost Summer

Theo

The rhythmic crunch of sturdy boots over chalky ground syncs with the heavy pounding of my heart. As if compelled, I slowly turn my head toward the ominous sound, and the chill glow of supernatural energy becomes my focus.

At its core is the dark and shadowed apparition of a man, and with each step, his form solidifies further. Peeping through the windows of the digger parked between us, I note the farmer-dealer boots and long wax jacket, and there, dangling casually from his right hand, is the same sawn-off shotgun he aimed at me last time.

My mouth runs dry.

He draws ever closer, his gait uneven and stiff, as if he carries a hip problem even in death. Although he wears a wide-brimmed hat pulled low, I can tell he must be in his late fifties from the way his gaunt cheeks feed into his jowls that hang loosely from an ill-defined jaw. But none of those things are what holds my attention.

Half of his head is… missing. The upper jaw, cheek, eye, and ear on the man’s left side are all gone. He doesn’t see me as he passes directly in front of the digger—probably because I’m on his bad side—but also because he’s intently focused on following his herd.

Well, that solves the mystery of what happened to Jim Bowen.

That he’s a Level Four entity grants him a freedom of movement that his cows don’t get. At best, they’re only Level Two. But is he following them because he’s chasing them, or is he drawn to the commotion Brigid and the vandals are making?

The memory of Hollis wrapping his palm tightly over my mouth as he whispered “shhh” in my ear, surges forward. Doing as I’m told, for once, I flatten my hand that doesn’t contain biscuit crumbs against my lips.

“What in the blazes is going on? Russel? Henry? Somebody speak to me!”

Mr Bowen stills and cocks his head to one side to listen to the angry voice that shouts loudly through the tinny speakerphone.

“Mister Stoker, now’s not a good time. I think Henry’s just broken his leg. Something spooked the cow. I need to get him to a—”

A sharp, deafening crack followed by a heavy, concussive boom that rattles my ribcage cuts Russel off mid-sentence.

My squeak is involuntary, and I press my lips so hard against my teeth that I reopen the cut.

While the taste of copper curls on my tongue, my thoughts race. Something about the sound of that gunshot is off. I know guns, I’m familiar with the different ballistics of them all, and Mr Bowen looks like he’s carrying a centrefire rifle. Maybe a Winchester. But that sound, even accounting for the fact that he’s hacked off half the barrel, was less like the loud blast from a metal cartridge and more like the heavy crackle from an electricity pylon.

In the pending silence, a single rasped and gurgled word turns my blood to ice.

“Sto-kerrr.” Mr Bowen sounds like a zombie.

I wince; that’s a bit unfair. Must be hard to talk with half your face blown off.

“What?” comes the tinny, angry voice through the phone again. “Who’s there? Who said that?”

Brigid, spooked by the gunshot, has bolted right deeper into the worksite, and my anxiety as I watch her head away from me fills my ears with the sound of rushing blood. There are some really deep open trenches that way, and it’s too dark for her to see properly now. What if she…

But Brigid comes to an abrupt stop, as if she’s run into some kind of invisible barrier.

“Russel, quit playing games,” shouts Mr Stoker through the phone. “I’m paying you handsomely to destroy the public trust in that farm. I demand an explanation. Or do I have to drive out there myself to see—”

“Sto-kerrr. Farrrm. Mine.” Jim’s breaths wheeze and rattle between each choked word.

From my right comes more low grunts. I risk diverting my gaze long enough to check in on Brigid. Tens of other cows huddle around her in the middle of Bowen’s Plaza, trading short, sharp moos between them. For the first time, the ghost herd has manifested enough that I can see them.

Keeping my steps light, I pick my way carefully to the back of the digger so I can have both the herd and Jim in sight. But from this new vantage point, I also have a clearer view of the van, and a very dead Russel.

His bald head slumps unnaturally onto his chest, which has a gaping fist-sized hole in it. The impact must have driven him backward too, because he’s sitting in a massive pool of his own blood, propped up against the open rear door of the van.

I can’t tear my eyes away. A ghost bullet did that?

With my heart in my mouth, I remember how Hollis’s fingertips had dug into my shoulders before I left, as if he could physically anchor me in place. He hadn’t wanted me to come here. His lucent white-blue eyes had held mine and implored me to exert caution. Too dangerous, he’d said. Lethal.

Mr Bowen turns in an ungainly circle and aims his weapon at Henry, who shuffles painfully backward on his elbows, dragging his broken leg over pebbled ground.

Hollis was right.