Page 33 of Hot Ghost Summer

Is he… gone?

“Hollis?”

No answer.

I stare at his phone, waiting. One second passes, two, then the overhead lights click back on. Raising my chin, I track the sounds around the small shop as each machine resets and starts its cycle over.

Confused, I look back at his phone, but the screen remains dark. My shoulders sag, and the weight of them pulls my hands down by my sides. So, he finally got what he wanted: out of his phone, and away from me.

His murderer.

I hang my head. Somehow, this feels worse than when I discovered his body had gone and I wouldn’t be able to return his soul, and I don’t get why that is. I should be happy he’s no longer trapped and is out there now living his best ghost-life. Instead, I just feel…

A sigh that starts in my toes cuts off my thoughts. I don’t know how to put into words what I feel.

How am I supposed to help him when he clearly hates me? And why is that thought so hard to accept?

Reaching up with my free hand, I flip my cap off, use the visor to scratch my head, and look around. No more fluctuating electricity, no more fritzing appliances, and no more Hollis.

With a shake of my head, I settle my cap back into place and move toward the door. Best to leave before the attendant arrives, and before any more damage can happen—or that I can be blamed for it.

The moment my foot lands on the pavement outside, Hollis’s phone vibrates softly in my palm.

My eyes snap to the screen. It’s powering on!

Protectively, my fingers curl tightly around the case, and the echo of my heartbeat in them is strong. But I don’t speak—I don’t dare.

I scrape my teeth over my bottom lip while I watch him boot up.

Why did he come back?

If he made it to the washing machines and dryers, then he made it to the mains supply, and if he made it there, then he could have accessed the national grid. Moving at the speed electricity does, he should be miles away by now. He had what he wanted, so why…?

I want to ask him; the question burns at the tip of my tongue, and I have to physically bite it back. There’s no point. He hates me and constantly tries to blow everything around me up. Even if I asked, he wouldn’t tell me. Instead, I file the anomaly away and act as if I haven’t noticed that he’s back.

Rolling my shoulders, I stretch out my neck and click open an internet search screen as if that had been my intention all along. Maybe there’ll never be anything I can say to make him despise me less, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help him move on.

When the screen loads, I press the dictation icon and ask, “What helps a ghost move on t’ the afterlife?”

To keep Hollis from spying on me through the camera, I press his phone to the side of my face and listen while the answers are read out loud.

For the next fifteen minutes, while I walk to the big shop to buy replacement lightbulbs, I learn all about the benefits of salt and sage, and make a mental note to purchase both while I’m there.

“How come you came back?” I finally ask, sliding the chicken breast from the frying pan onto my plate.

No response.

It’s been hours, and Hollis hasn’t so much as made my new lightbulbs flicker.

I know he can hear me.

I hate being ignored.

The microwave pings, and I add that meal to the plate with my chicken. These ready-meals never have enough meat included, so I always fry off extra.

Gathering everything up, I move over to the table where I set Hollis’s laptop and phone to charge earlier. I’d needed to stand on the sofa to reach the curtain rail to hang my wet laundry to dry, and didn’t want to risk stepping on him. I’m starting to wonder why I bothered.

I shovel a forkful of chicken and rice into my mouth and look over at his screen. While I chew, I watch him copy individual files from one location to another. The Nachtmann Field Guide to Ghosts and Ghouls had caught my eye earlier, but when I tried to investigate, he literally shot electricity at me.