Page 82 of Hot Ghost Summer

“Got shit signal, boss, I can barely hear you.” The cow-napper walks back toward the gate—right by where I was just standing. “Yeah, that’s better. Loading her up now.”

My mouth runs dry as I stand on tiptoes to peep at them through the window of the vehicle I’m hiding behind.

Brigid’s already got one foot on a ramp that’ll lead her into the back of a Transit van. I can’t let her get in there. If they do as they threatened earlier and release her onto the motorway…

“No, Mister Stoker, no one saw. We took her out the back.”

Stoker… Stoker?

Brigid gives a sharp bleat, and the van rocks side to side just from her front hoof on the ramp.

Fucking think, Theo. Do something, anything, to disturb them.

“Sir, I gotta go help Russ.”

Another distress call from Brigid, but this time it’s accompanied by a low and rumbling vibration that seeps through the chalky ground beneath my feet. My head snaps in the direction of Plot 47.

“I’m putting you on speakerphone, Mister Stoker, ’cause I need my hands to push. She’s big and heavy.”

The vibrations grow stronger, and a low, nasal humming thrums alongside. Now I know who it belongs to, I wonder why I didn’t recognise the sound before? Out of place, maybe. Had this still been a pasture, and not an urban building site, maybe I would have done.

My eyes dart between Brigid, the van, Plot 47, and a herd of spectral cows I can feel but not see. I think over everything I’ve learned about ghosts this last week.

When Hollis… became a poltergeist, he was still Hollis. The things he prioritised as a man remain the same now he’s a spirit. Like when he got really mad about how I made a cup of tea, or how he’s still really strict, and values research and knowledge. He might be dead, but he’s still him. Which means the ghost herd is still just… cows.

The smell of burning flesh sears the inside of my nose, and a wave of violent nausea churns my stomach. I thought it smelled nice the first time.

Breathing through my mouth, I look back through the window at Brigid. The vibrations and rumbling are strong enough now that she’s retreated down the ramp, her tail swishing through the air as the men sweat and swear on either side of her.

The paper bag of oat biscuits in my hand rustles, giving me an idea. If the ghost herd is trapped in a death cycle, then they’ll make their way along a predestined route, regardless. But if they’re not… If they’re searching for sanctuary, then my offer of help—and of biscuits—will appeal.

Opening the bag, I break a biscuit into pieces and whistle the way I’ve always done for cows. Brigid hears me immediately, her ears twitching and brown eyes wide. Digging in with those front legs, she resists the men even harder.

Heavy snorts bellow in my ear, and I hold out the flat of my hand to offer the biscuit bites. Cold, wet, and slimy tongues lick over my palms, but the biscuits remain.

“Shhhh, it’s okay,” I whisper. “Good girls. I’ve got you.”

Brigid moos again.

“Can you help me save my friend too? Then we’ll all go home, okay?”

A chorus of lowing builds around me, and the ground rumbles so hard that the grit and pebbles on it visibly shake.

“What’s that?” barks Russ.

Brigid knocks the other man over with a swipe of her massive bovine skull as she turns to get away from the van. “Ow, Jesus. Fuck.”

“Get up you—” The loud crack of a bone breaking flips my already iffy stomach, and a pained scream cuts through the air.

Right as I tense, ready to jump out from hiding and grab Brigid, a blue haze builds in my peripheral vision. Snorts from the ghost cows that surround me chill the air, suddenly dropping the temperature until my breaths pant out in white puffs.

I freeze in place. The taste of metal coats my tongue, and static electricity raises the hairs on my arms.

This is exactly like right before Mr Bowen…

twenty-five

Bowen's Animal Rescue