Jeanie Writes Genre

Because I'm in a sharing mood.

***
Claire drove. She didn't listen to the radio. She didn't sing along with her mp3 player or make phone calls or dictate notes to herself or any of the other things she usually did in her car. She just drove. If somebody asked her, she couldn't tell them where she went. Sometime after dark, she ended up in her own driveway. She didn't know how long she'd been driving.

On autopilot, she went inside, went to her kitchen and made a sandwich. Then she left it on the counter and went to take a shower. Standing under the spray, she had a vague, dreamlike recollection of showering with Michael. Or had it been Not Michael? The dragons from her dream flashed through her memory, and she shivered. She shut off the water and went to get dressed.

Back in the kitchen, she took a bite of her sandwich, then spit it out. Her appetite was gone. She wrapped the remains and put them in the fridge. There, she spotted an open can of tuna, and took it out. She stared at it, wondering if she should toss it. She was about to when she heard a meow.

Startled, she spun to see Sam running up to her. Still meowing, he stood on his hind legs to get a better whiff of the tuna. Claire bent down and scooped him up. His collar jingled and he yowled in protest as she held him up by his armpits and stared into his eyes. Blank, hungry, aloof and annoyed cat eyes started back. Brown-green eyes, not yellow. This wasn't Sam.

He'd replaced the cat. That's how she had seen them both together.

This strange new cat let out a low, warning growl. Claire let him drop to the floor, then she turned around and dry heaved into the sink. She hadn't just lost a lover. She'd lost a pet, too. She'd lost the last week of her life to a lie. Absently, she uncovered the tuna and set it down for the hungry cat. Then she grabbed her keys, returned to her car, and pointed it at Timmy's. She needed a drink.

She needed a lot of drinks.

The bar was fairly crowded for a weeknight. Sickness returned to the pit of her stomach as she walked through the door, remembering the last time she'd been there with Michael. Not Michael. The other Michael.

That was crazy. But it sure explained a hell of a lot about that night.

With a shudder, she swallowed and found a seat at the bar. She grabbed a handful of boiled peanuts and chewed on them to settle her stomach while she waited for the bartender to take her order. By the time he came over, wiping out a pint glass with a towel, she had eaten them all. She opened her mouth to order a gin and diet tonic, double on the gin, but the bartender cut her off. "'Bout time you got here," he said, and jerked his chin in the direction of a table behind her. "That guy's a reporter for the Inquirer."

Not looking back, Claire sighed with impatience. "So?"

"So, I thought you'd want to get your guy outta here before he ends up front page in all the supermarkets."

This time, when he did that chin-jerk thing again in another direction, Claire turned to look. Michael--or somebody who looked exactly like him--sat alone in the back corner, obviously hammered. She watched in horror as he sang along with the jukebox at the top of his lungs, annoying his neighbors and sloshing beer all over himself, the table, the floor and some of said neighbors as he swung his stein back and forth to the music.

A bouncer near the door also saw him. The huge, burly man started his way, passing right by the reporter. Claire knew that that wasn't Michael. She also knew that everyone else would believe it was Michael. She knew she had to do something. She wanted to down a few shots of tequila first, but she knew there wasn't time; so she hopped down from the bench and intercepted the bouncer. "Please," she said, laying a hand gently on the guy's enormous arm, and he stopped. "Let me handle him."

The guy looked back and forth between her and... the other one, and shook his head skeptically. "I don't know, lady. He looks like a handful."

Claire fished her emergency cash out of her back pocket and pressed it into his palm. "Please? I'll get him out of here. Just make sure that guy doesn't see him."

The bouncer looked back at the tabloid reporter, then at Claire, then at the money in his hand. Finally, he nodded. "Five minutes, then I'm taking over."

"Thank you," she said. As he moved back in the direction of the reporter, Claire took a deep breath and went to the back corner table.

©2007-2008 by JM Bauhaus

Labels: excerpts, Hero+Factor

The little bells jingled as he padded through the city, but still no one took notice of him. He made his way, unmolested by human, dog or other, to the alley near the studio where he had first conceived his plans. Once there, he blended right in; just another stray cat rooting through the trash. Of course, his prey wasn't a rat or a casually tossed out meal, and his purpose wasn't to be fed.

He didn't blame Claire for the collar, or hold its humiliation against her. It was his own fault that she found it necessary to keep track of him. He'd known he wouldn't be able to keep up this charade for ever. The bells heralded the end of it as surely as they heralded his arrival.

It was simple enough to slip out of the collar. Then all he needed was to wait. The other cats mostly ignored him, and he them. They weren't what he needed.

Then, at last, he spied his subject. A solid black cat, nearly identical to his present form, leaped down from a fire escape onto a nearby garbage bin. Its scent told the Pooka that it was male. Perfect. The Pooka stole silently to the bin, waited for the cat's attention to be thoroughly engrossed in the remains of a sandwich, and changed. His human hand shot out inhumanly fast and grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck. It hissed and spat at him as he retrieved the collar, scratching and biting as he fastened the damned thing around its neck. "Sorry, cat," he muttered, "but better you than me."

What to do next, he realized, he hadn't really thought through. He was naked in his current form, and trying to carry an angry cat home on foot was likely to be painful, not to mention painfully conspicuous. None of his other forms were conducive to safely conveying the struggling creature, either; he really needed hands for that. He would have to leave the cat and come back for it later. Looking around for something to hold it, he spotted a pile of empty boxes and milk crates. He righted one of the crates and stuffed the still-protesting cat inside, covering it with a flattened cardboard box and stacking more crates on top to weigh it down. "That should hold you."

"Dare I ask what you intend to do with that creature?" a voice asked behind him.

The Pooka suddenly became acutely aware of the vulnerability of his human nakedness, but he resisted the impulse to change. Instead he turned and, squaring his shoulders in defiance, faced his interrogator. "Is it any concern of yours?"

A tall, pale man with long, dark hair stood watching him, his narrow face a mixture of amused affection and pity. He wore a long, high-collared coat, belted at the waist, and held a pair of gloves in one hand.. Only his blazing yellow eyes betrayed his inhumanity. He walked forward and circled the Pooka, studying him, making him feel a level of humiliation that the little blue jingle-bell collar couldn't even touch. "I had heard you'd been bound by the Princess, but I had no idea she would place you in such low circumstance. To force you to impersonate a mortal." He didn't add anything else. He didn't need to. The disdain the notion inspired was evident in his tone.

"Aren't you impersonating a mortal as we speak?" asked the Pooka.

Standing in front of him, his brother shook his head in disgust. "I'm wearing a human form of my own devising. You know the difference. Still," he sighed, looking the Pooka up and down, "this body suits you. It's strong, well-proportioned and not unattractive. Although I'd have been tempted to make it taller."

"Careful, brother. You almost sound as though you approve."

An indignant snort told him all he needed to know. Still, his brother had to rub it in. "Approval is something you lost long ago. I'd have thought you'd have been devising ways to win it back all this time. You never fail to disappoint me, little brother."

"I never strive to do otherwise."

A tight smile crossed his brother's lips. "Most disappointing is the woman."

Tension coiled throughout the Pooka's entire body. "What woman?"

The look his brother gave him was both knowing and irritated. "Are you so disenchanted with your own race that you would risk the very essence of your being for a taste of this forbidden fruit?"

"I know not of which you speak," the Pooka stated flatly, "and neither do you."

"Please, brother. Don't embarrass yourself. My own eyes spied you with her." He sighed, and shook his head, his mouth drawn into a grimace of disgust. "I had thought you learned your lesson the last time."

His brother's tone was sharpened with a dangerous edge. Another sensation filled the Pooka, tightening the coils within him. It was not entirely foreign to him, but it was rare enough that it took him a moment to recognize it for what it was: fear. The feeling angered him, and he latched onto that anger, nursed it until it grew and overtook the other. Then he laughed. "You're making a fool of yourself, brother. The woman is necessary to this facade. She is an accessory. Nothing more."

"Is she now?"

Putting on his best air of nonchalance, he shrugged. He felt a pang of discomfort at denying Claire, but it was necessary. He had to believe himself that she meant nothing to him if he was to convince his brother. Her life might very well depend on it. "She is involved with the mortal I'm impersonating. She knows him well, knows his schedule and habits, and has proven extremely useful in helping me keep up the charade. She has no idea that I am not who I claim to be, and if the Princess' plan is successful, the real Chambers will return and she'll be none the wiser." He tilted his head and looked to the sky as if to consider. "Although, it does occur to me that Chambers might never return. That certainly wouldn't be the worst thing that could happen. I could go on enjoying his life as long as it holds amusement for me. Chambers is a celebrity. In this country, that practically makes him royalty."

"Well spoken, brother. And what of his woman? If he doesn't return, do you intend to make her yours as well?"

She is already more mine than she was ever his, his mind screamed. The thought startled him. He had no idea where it had sprung from. He hoped his brother hadn't seen him flinch. He raised an eyebrow. "The thought never crossed my mind. Really, brother. Her usefulness is far outweighed by her tediousness. It's not as though there's anything remarkable about the girl."

"Really? I thought she was quite a beauty, as mortals go." He smirked, and let his glance flicker downward. "When I saw you with her at the bar, your borrowed anatomy seemed to agree."

The Pooka thought he couldn't be more irritated. As it turned out, he could, but he didn't know which irritated him more; that his brothers were spying on him, or that he had been so wrapped up in Claire that he hadn't noticed. "All part of the act," he lied.

"I hope so." He moved into the Pooka's space and rapped his chest with the gloves. Biting his lip, his brother looked upward as though trying to remember something. "I can still hear the other girl... what was her name? Persimmon tree?"

"Persephone." The correction escaped before he could stop it.

"Ah, yes. That makes more sense, as human names go. I can still hear sweet, lovely Persephone as she was dragged away, pleading for your intervention. It was extraordinarily grating. All those piercing shrieks... I'd hate to have to experience it again."

The Pooka managed to keep perfectly still, all in an effort not to kill his brother then and there. Fratricide would ensure he was never allowed back home. "No, brother," he said, his tone cordial and absent of the coldness he felt, "I wouldn't want you to suffer so."

His brother smiled. "I'm glad to hear you say so." Then he frowned, examining the Pooka, and swept some debris off of his shoulder with the gloves. "I am doing this for your own good, of course. You may be a source of unending shame to our entire race, but it's still my place to look after you."

"To look after me?" the Pooka asked. "Or to make certain I don't bring even more shame to the family?"

His brother smiled. "Both." Then he exploded into a fluttering flock of blackbirds.

The Pooka watched as his much older and more talented brother made his exit, and rolled his eyes. He had always been in love with his own theatrics. Only once the birds were out of sight did all of the tension, anger and fear in him uncoil and allow him to relax. Bowing his head, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He knew it was a human gesture of frustration, but it still made him feel marginally better.

They were watching him.

They were watching Claire.

As if it wasn't bad enough having to bow to Alathea's wishes and fulfill their bargain, now he also had to worry about pleasing the family -- or at least not displeasing them enough that they would see Claire as a true threat. As much as it pained him to have her angry with him, perhaps it was for the best. The sooner he delivered this decoy cat to her, the better. Then he'd be able to keep a safe distance and ensure that his brothers would keep away from her.

That prospect caused an empty feeling in his belly that he normally only felt upon thinking of home.

He opened his eyes, and sighed. Then he strode over to the crate and snatched the cat out of it. "Change of plan," he said, dropping it to the ground before it could scratch him. It hissed and ran down the alley. The pooka ran after it. He leaped into the air and flapped his great, black eagle's wings, then swooped down to grab the cat gently but firmly in both talons before turning toward his neighborhood.

He hoped Chambers would return home soon.

©2007-2008 by JM Bauhaus

Labels: excerpts, Hero+Factor

CHAPTER ONE

The silver blade sliced the air as Simon Caufield swung his axe. It connected with the demon's chest. Black, scaly skin split and fissured as the body tore itself apart. The creature unleashed an unholy shriek, and then was silenced in an explosion of blood and goo.



Simon bent to pick up his axe. He wiped the blade on the grass, then rested it against his shoulder. He spat out a glob of slime that had gotten in his mouth. "One down," he said, his gaze scanning the cemetery. "Twenty to go."



"Cut!"



Michael Chambers spat again, and wiped more goo off his face. "This stuff is nasty," he complained, then reconsidered and licked his finger. "Tastes all right, though."



"It's mostly corn syrup," said an effects supervisor as he handed Michael a towel.



"That looked really cool," said Michael.



"Thanks!" He launched into an overly technical explanation of how he'd rigged the dummy to explode, but before Michael had to feign understanding the director interrupted.



"All right, let's get the stunt guys in here and do it again! Chambers, great job. You're done. Go clean up."



Michael shrugged out of Simon Caufield's trademark leather coat and handed it and the axe over to his stunt double. "Try not to get that stuff in your eyes," he warned him. "It stings." He draped the towel over his shoulder and headed to the craft service table to grab some coffee before he hit the showers.



"I need to stay with you for a while."



Michael paused, taking in the sight of Claire standing beside the table, holding out coffee and hope. A large suitcase sat next to a cat carrier at her feet. Michael's heart did a little dance, but he told himself it was for the coffee. "Why?"



"Plague. Pestilence. The usual."



He took the coffee and drank half of it before encouraging her to elaborate. He'd had a long day shooting action scenes and stunt pickups. He was tired and sore and he had a feeling he was about to need all the strength he could get. "Come again?"



"Bugs," she clarified, picking at the deli tray. "Not just a couple of cockroaches. That I could handle. We're talking many varieties of big, black, hairy creatures. Biblical stuff. It's the End Times in my apartment." She nibbled a slice of cheese, and then looked at it thoughtfully. "And there were rats."



"Rats?"



"Well, a rat. But isn't that enough? It was huge, bigger than my cat. Who, by the way, needs to come with me to your house while my landlord has the place fumigated. I hope that's okay."



Michael slowly sipped the rest of his coffee, buying himself a minute to think. Saying no would make him a bastard, and it wasn't like he didn't have the room. She still had an office in his house, even. But he still slept on one side of the bed and kept his toothbrush on one side of the bathroom drawer, even though it had been a year since she'd moved out. Having her back full-time, even for a few days... he didn't know if he could handle that.



Of course, she didn't seem to have a problem with it. Man up, Michael, he told himself. The bitterness he swallowed didn't all come from the coffee. He smiled. "Of course."



She smiled back. "Knew I could count on you." She knelt to open the cat carrier. "Hear that, Sam?" she said, pulling out twenty pounds of black fur. "We're not homeless." She stood up and cradled the fat bastard like an infant. It turned its yellow-eyed glare on Michael.



"You named him Sam?"



"Yeah. Don't you think he looks like a Sam?"



"I guess. Hey, kitty." Michael held a finger up to the cat, who gave it a perfunctory sniff before turning his haughty little nose up. That was gratitude for you. The cat had been a stray hanging around the set a few weeks ago. Somehow it found its way inside Michael's trailer, where he allowed it to stay while Claire tried to find it a home. He was ready to take it to a shelter himself when she finally decided to give it her home. He definitely wasn't a cat person.



Claire held the cat out to him. "Wanna hold him a minute?"



Michael took a step back and put up his hands. "Yeah, probably not, what with the slime."



"Oh." Claire looked him up and down, noticing his appearance for the first time. She wrinkled her nose. "Ew."



"Michael?"



Michael turned to see a woman approaching. She was an older woman, plainly dressed, with stringy, gray hair that hung past her shoulders. As she reached him, she smiled. "It's you!"



The cat let out a low growl, and then hissed for no apparent reason. Cats. Go figure. Claire stooped to stuff him back in his cage, but the woman seemed oblivious. She reached a hand toward Michael's face. "It's really you!"



He intercepted her hand and shook it. "Yeah, it's me. Do you belong with a tour group?"



She stared down at his hand a moment before clasping it in both of hers. "Don't you know me?"



"Um." He looked to Claire for a little help, but she had stepped away and was speaking quietly into her cell phone. "Did I meet you last year at ComiCon?"



"Michael." She gazed up at him, her eyes filling up with tears. "Sweetheart, I'm your mother."



Michael just stood there a moment, his mouth hanging open like it hoped to trap some appropriate words. "Right," he said, finally, and smiled. He hoped it was a compassionate smile. He leaned closer to the woman and said, gently, "Ma'am, my mother lives in Tulsa."



"No." The mystery woman shook her head furiously. "No. She doesn't know what you are. She can't help you. I'm the only one who can protect you. I kept you safe! But they didn't get you, so it's all right. I can be with you now, Michael. We can finally be together!" Her nails started digging into his hands.



"Okay," he said, prying himself out of her grip. "It's okay. Just calm down."



Behind him, Claire snapped her phone shut. She stepped forward. "Ma'am, we're going to have to ask you to leave." As she spoke a couple of security guards came running up.



"Sorry," one of them was saying. "We don't know how she got in here."



"No!" the woman screamed as they grabbed her by the arms.



"Hey, don't be so rough," Michael told them, but they were already dragging her away. She screamed his name the entire time. Michael watched helplessly, feeling nothing but pity for the woman.



"Hey." Claire took hold of his arm and squeezed. "You okay?"



"Yeah." Michael shook his head. "Wow."



"Yeah. That's a whole butt-load of crazy right there."



Michael nodded. "My mother. That's a new one. Still, not as scary as that lady who goes around to conventions claiming she's my wife."



Claire chuckled. "That time in Chicago I thought she was going to tear my hair out. You've got some rabid admirers there, Fangirl-bait."



He shrugged. "Goes with the territory, I guess."



"Yeah. Anyway, that reminds me. Your actual mother keeps calling. She left about five messages on your machine this morning."



"Is she okay?"



"She said it wasn't an emergency and you shouldn't worry about her."



Michael rolled his eyes. "She always says that."



"I know. I called her back and she said she's fine. She just wants to talk to you."



Michael sighed. "She probably has a question about her car or something. She calls me for all that kind of stuff now."



Claire nodded and gave him a sympathetic smile. "It's tough for her. Your dad really took care of her."



"Yeah."



A moment passed in silence, then Claire spoke up and changed the subject before it could turn awkward. "Your agent also called. He's sending over a couple of screenplays he wants you to consider. Said they'll build your indie cred."



Michael smirked. "Translation: the pay's crap."



Claire shrugged. "What else are you going to do with your summer?"



"Good point."



"Anyway, I've got to run." She picked up the cat carrier with a grunt and pulled up the handle on her suitcase. "I've got a ton of errands to get done, but I'll drop my stuff off first. Do you have dinner plans?"



"You tell me. You keep my schedule."



Claire grinned. "You do have dinner plans. I'll pick up some groceries and cook us something."



"Stroganoff?" he asked hopefully.



"I'll see what I can arrange."



"Excellent. Tell me again why I didn't marry you?"



It was out before he could stop it, and now it was too late to take it back. He managed not to cringe, even as Claire's artfully plucked eyebrow lifted in a "Don't go there " arch. "It's the least I can do," she said, mercifully ignoring his idiocy. She picked up the pet carrier, but studied him before going. "Are you really okay?"


"I'm fine. I mean, that wasn't exactly normal," he said, indicating the direction in which security had taken the woman, "but I'm fine. Really."


Claire nodded, but she didn't look convinced. "Do me a favor and get security to walk to your car, okay?"


"Claire--"


"Okay?" She wasn't going to let it go.


Michael sighed. "Okay."


She nodded again, and this time she seemed satisfied. "See you later."



"Right. Later." He held up his hand in a lazy wave as she walked away. At least she still cares, he thought as he watched her go. Of course, that's kind of her job now. Once she was gone, he closed his eyes and sighed. Dumb-ass. Dredging up ancient history wasn't going to make her stay at his place comfortable for either of them. Or their working relationship, for that matter, and he couldn't afford to lose her as a personal assistant. She was just too damn good.


It was shaping up to be one hell of a week.

***

©2007-2008 by JM Bauhaus

Labels: excerpts, Hero+Factor

This is one of a very few scenes from my 2007 WriMo novel that I'm fairly confident won't need to be extensively re-written.

***

"Are you sure about this?" asked Chris.

"Yup," I told her. "As sure as I've been about anything since I died."

She looked over at me. "Which would be, not very."

"I'm pretty sure," I said.

We stood at the edge of Clara's grave, playing lookout while Gus dug. It was a clear night, with stars visible through the trees overhead. We had a lot of company in the form of other ghosts wandering about, most likely doing their best to fend off boredom. Chris shined a flashlight for Gus, but the moon was bright enough that he didn't really need it. I was oblivious to things like hot or cold, but judging by Chris's leather jacket and the way she hunched her shoulders, I was guessing it was a bit nippy. Despite all the activity, it was pretty quiet except for the grunts and labored breathing coming from Gus.

"It just feels wrong to me," she said. "Digging up a little girl's grave... you know, grave desecration can bring about some pretty hefty consequences."

Clara appeared on the other side of her grave, just for an instant. She looked at me and smiled, then vanished. "Don't worry," I told Chris. "We're doing the right thing here."

"I hope you're right," she said. "'Cause if I get haunted by anybody else I'm going to sick the exorcist I hire on YOUR ass."

"Why are you so cranky?" I asked.

She turned to stare at me. "You're kidding, right? It's an ungodly hour of the morning, it's cold, we are now officially grave robbers, and I've barely gotten any sleep since you died."

"Here," I said, nudging the thermos on the ground between us in her direction. "Have some more coffee."

She glared at me, but she helped herself to a cup all the same.

Gus looked to be about three feet down by now. He stopped digging and leaned on his shovel. "You know," he managed between all his panting, "I didn't sign on for this. How come I have to do all the digging?"

"Cause Ron's a ghost and I'm the boss and I'm paying you double time for this," said Chris. She blew on her coffee. "Besides, you need a lookout."

"Can't Ron be the lookout while you help dig?"

"Tell him to shut up and dig or I'll tell you what he did to my body at the wake."

Chris was sipping her coffee and she almost did a spit take. "What the hell did you do to my sister at the wake?"

Gus's eyes widened. His face was already red from exertion, so it was hard to tell if he blushed. "Nothing," he said, and got back to work.

Chris looked at me, and I shrugged. "Gus loves me."

"Since when?"

"Hell if I know. It was news to me, too."

She just shook her head and went back to sipping her coffee. We settled into a comfortable silence for a while. Then out of nowhere she said, "So if this works, what will happen to you?"

"I don't know," I said. "I hadn't really thought about it."

"You probably should. Your novel's done except for the clean-up, and I can hire a copy editor for that. I read it, by the way. It's really good."

"Really? Thanks."

"Your agent thinks so, too. She's sure this will get you on the best seller list."

"Well, that figures," I grumped.

"Anyway, that's done, and your relationship with Dad is as resolved as it's ever likely to get. You don't have any more unfinished business. The only thing keeping you here is Sara."

"Oh. Right. That didn't even occur to me." Now that I thought about it, she was probably right. Once Sara was out of the way, it would most likely be time to move on. I'm sure Max couldn't wait. And Joe... well, Joe had been tortured long enough. The prospect scared me, though. I didn't know what we'd be moving on to.

"If that happens," said Chris, "I'll miss you."

"I know," I said. "But you'll be okay."

"Eventually, I guess," she agreed, and sighed. Then she looked over at me. "Say hi to Mom for me."

I nodded. "I will if I see her."

We both got quiet again. I realized that this could be our last opportunity to say anything to each other. It was too much pressure. I wanted to leave her with some piece of profound wisdom, or at least a useful bit of advice. I supposed I could apologize for all the times I was mean to her growing up, but that stuff didn't really matter now. There were probably a million things I could or should say. But I couldn't think of a single damn one.

I figured she was probably thinking the same thing.

So neither of us said anything. But it was a peaceful silence, not awkward or uncomfortable. The kind of silence that can only exist between two people who love the hell out of each other and don't need to say so.

Eventually, Gus went from a torso and a head sticking up out of the hole in the ground to just a head. "I think I hit something," he said. I leaned over to peer into the grave while he scraped dirt off of the casket. "Aw, man," he said once he'd uncovered it. "I don't want to be here anymore." He climbed up out of the grave. I couldn't really blame him. The casket had been made of pine, and it had rotted and cracked under the weight of all the dirt. Clara's tiny corpse, or what was left of it, could be seen grinning up at us through the slats.

Chris sighed, handed Gus her coffee, and jumped down into the grave. "Look for a red ball," I said, "about the size of a croquet ball."

"I know," she said. Her face twisted into a grimace, she bent to grab hold of the rotted wood. Most of it came away pretty easily. She had most of the lid torn up when she called, "I see it!" She retrieved it and held it up for us to see. "It's not very red anymore, though."

"That doesn't matter," I said. "Now I just need you to get it to the house for me."

She handed the ball to Gus and let him pull her out of the grave. "You guys go on," he said. "I'll stay here and fill this in."

Chris looked him up and down. "How come you're so eager to do backbreaking labor all of a sudden?"

"Look, I may be so sore I can't move for a week," he said, tossing a shovel full of dirt back into the grave, "but at least I know I won't be stuck haunting that house with Ron by morning. Don't worry. I can take the bus home."

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "You're going to get on the bus outside a cemetery, covered in dirt and carrying a shovel?"

"Have you seen most of the people who ride the bus? I'll fit right in."

"Fraidy cat," I muttered.

Chris rolled her eyes. "Let's go," she said, heading off in the direction of her car.

"Hang on," I said. "I'll meet you there. I better get back and give the guys the lowdown."

"Oh. Okay." She looked a little disappointed.

I sighed. "Look, I don't want you coming inside that house again. When you get there, just open the door and toss the ball in, then get the hell away."

She rolled the ball back and forth between her hands. "Sure," she said. "Fine. So I guess this is it."

Damn. "Yeah," I said. "I guess it is."

She tilted her head back and started blinking, and tried surreptitiously to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye. "You were kind of a jerk sometimes," she said.

"Yeah, I know. Sorry about that. But you were kind of a twerp sometimes."

She smiled, and sniffed. "Yeah. I'm not really sorry about that." Then she got serious and said, "You were a good sister, Ronnie. You were my best friend."

"Hey, what's with all the past tense? I'm not gone yet."

Sniffling, she looked down at the ball and nodded. "Yeah, well... have a good afterlife, okay?"

"I'm not really sure how much say I get in that," I said.

"Are you scared?" she asked, looking up at me.

"Kind of. A lot."

She nodded again.

"My kid sister's safe, though," I said. "And she turned out pretty awesome. So I think I can deal with whatever's next."

She smiled again. She just looked at me for a minute. Then she said, simply, "Bye, sis."

"Bye," I said, and returned to the house.

***

©2007-2008 by JM Bauhaus

Labels: excerpts, nanowrimo, This Old Haunt