Chapter Two
On a scale of one to delicious, the caramel apple was near the top. As a kid, Slate would pester his parents to buy him one every time they visited the festival. The tart green apples encased in a shell of amber-colored caramel were as much a part of his childhood as any Halloween treat. More than pumpkin spice could ever be—not that he’d admit that last part to Dash.
“See?” Dash said with a mouthful of apple. “Not everything associated with Halloween is a pumpkin-spiced conspiracy designed to rot your teeth.”
Their first visit to the festival, Dash had bought everyone an apple. The only person missing this time was Liv. She was on an ERP assignment, but she would be back in a few days. When she returned, they’d all have to come again. “I never said they weren’t good,” Slate said, licking a drop of juice from his thumb. “But that doesn’t mean pumpkin spice is bad.”
“Heathen.” Dash took an exaggerated bite of his apple.
A sense of peace filled Slate as they neared the wrought-iron fence that bordered the town square. He’d wanted this life, but secretly worried the reality wouldn’t meet the expectation. Thankfully, it exceeded his hopes. Dash had burrowed his wayinto Slate’s being, and now he was as natural as breathing. It was nice without being suffocating.
They grinned at each other as they ate. It felt like just the two of them amid the river of festive noise.
Then the prickle returned.
It was the same sensation as earlier, but stronger. The hair on his arms stood at attention. It wasn’t the hostile energy of the angry spirits trying to tear through the Veil the year before. This was exuberant. Unfocused. A thrumming, messy vibration that felt like a song played slightly off-key.
Dash paused mid-bite, his hand hovering near his lips. He looked at Slate, one eyebrow raised in a silent question. Slate gave a minute shake of his head. He didn’t know what this was. But it was definitely new.
The energy coalesced near the main gazebo, which served as the festival’s central stage. A folk band had just finished their set to polite applause. As the musicians packed away their instruments, a flicker of movement caught Slate’s eye. A figure materialized on the stage, coalescing from the evening air like smoke taking form.
Although he was translucent—and he was a male—like Thomas and Oliver, this ghost was denser. Not quite solid, but his form was saturated with a bewildering, psychedelic energy. He wore what looked like a vintage tie-dyed shirt over faded bell-bottoms. His shaggy brown hair was held back with a leather headband, and a string of wooden beads hung around his neck. It looked like someone had wandered out of a photograph from the Sixties.
The ghost stretched, his arms rising above his head with the languid grace of someone waking from a long nap. He took a deep, theatrical breath—a purely performative gesture for a being without lungs—and beamed at the people below.
A few in the crowd pointed toward the stage. The guy wasn’t visible, but his presence caused a disturbance that blurred the surrounding air. From the smattering of comments Slate could hear, most assumed it was a special effect or some lingering theatrical smoke.
The ghost ambled to the front of the stage, his bare, spectral feet slap-slapping against the wooden planks. He leaned into the microphone stand, even though his voice wouldn’t carry to the mortals in attendance. Those sensitive enough to feel anything would hear a faint whisper in the background.
“Whoa,” he said, his voice a mellow drawl, “Far out. This place is vibing.”
His voice was a low, rolling wave of sound that resonated not in the air, but in the ether. It was meant for spectral ears.
Slate’s hand tightened around the wooden stick of his half-eaten apple. This was the first time a ghost had crashed the festival. Why now? Why had he appeared the first year he could relax and enjoy the celebration?
The ghost’s gaze swept over the festival, pausing at different spots. Most people had drifted away from the stage, migrating to other events. Slate scanned the space for Thomas and Oliver. They stood by the water tanks, staring at the newcomer. Thomas caught Slate’s gaze and shrugged.
On stage, a slow, beatific smile spread across his face. “Man, I always knew this place would be awesome.” His tone filled with the impassioned energy of a late-night radio DJ. He raised his hands as if to bless the entire town.
“To all my brothers and sisters, can you dig it? She’s gone. We can finally come to the greatest Halloween party ever. This is the spectral Shangri-La. The happening of all happenings! And now that mean old ghost is gone and won’t chase us away.”
He should’ve known his great-grandmother had kept other spirits from crashing the annual Festival. She wanted his familyto fix the problem she’d created. Drawing attention to the town would make that harder.
Slate dropped his caramel apple in the trash and moved toward the stage. Without a word, Dash joined him a second later.
The ghost was looking down as he paced the stage with exacting steps. When he reached the far end, he spun around and walked back.
Halfway through his return trip, Slate made it to the edge. He waited for the ghost to notice him, but he never took his focus off his walk.
“Excuse me,” Slate said. His voice was loud enough for the ghost to hear, but it didn’t reach much beyond the stage. “Can we help you?”
The ghost spun around so fast he nearly toppled over. His eyes went wide, darting between Slate and Dash like he’d been caught stealing from the collection plate.
“Whoa, man. You can see me?” The ghost’s voice cracked slightly. He straightened his headband with nervous fingers. “That’s heavy.”
“We can see you,” Dash said. His voice sounded calm, but Slate caught the slight edge underneath. “We also heard your announcement about turning our town into spectral party central.”
“Right on! I’m Gary. Gary Torrente.” The ghost’s face lit up again, his momentary anxiety forgotten. “I didn’t think anyone could see me. Most people notice I’m around, but I’m just a weird feeling they can’t explain. You two are the first living peeps I can talk to.”
