“Look!” The third member of James’s band, the bassist—James called him Remy? I think? It seems to change every other month or so—pulls out a sign. It looks like it was made for a car wash. “I made this so everyone can follow us on socials.”
“That’s so earnest,” I say, because I don’t know how else to compliment him. “Now, I know you’ve got to do a sound check before the reception—”
“Yeah, we should do one of those!” says Eric.
“—but I need you to handle something else first. The groom’s family is making trouble.”
This is a little bit of an exaggeration. A white lie. A white avalanche of a lie. I’m a bad person.
Then again, how bad could my plan be if I’ve gotten Hanry and Bulan on board with it, too?
“What kind of trouble?” asks James, whose giddy excitement remains unabated. I lean in conspiratorially.
“They want to play the wedding.”
Back in the ballroom, Bulan has concealed himself in a garbage can with my phone. I suspect he’s playing a farming game and mashing in commands with his nose. It’s a disgusting but necessary sacrifice: while James’s obliviousness sometimes seems limitless, I doubt he would overlook a talking head without a body.
Ghosts, weirdly enough, might get past him.
The Vampire Weekenders take over the ballroom stage, plugging in amps and pedals and crossing wires as they arrange themselves for sound check. Before long, a ghost floats into the reception room and streams up to the as-yet-unlit stage.
“Hey man,” the filmy figure intones. “We can’t hear ourselves reciting anymore.”
“Well, you can’t expect us to shut this down,” says Eric. “We’re paid to be here. It’s a gig.”
“Big gig,” agrees Remy. “We’re the Vampire Weekenders.”
The ghost considers this. “I think I’ve heard of Vampire Weekend.”
“Not the same,” Hanry explains from beneath the wedding arch, which he decided to construct here and carry to the greenhouse later. “They’re a cover band.”
A second ghost appears in the doorway with a quietpop. Eric and James shrug it off, but Remy jumps back, glancing around for confirmation that something unnatural just happened. I raise an eyebrow at him, which gets him back on task.
“You can’t play Vampire Weekend’s music,” the second ghost says. “That’s copyright infringement.”
“You can’t take this from us,” says Eric, smiling firmly. “You’re wedding guests, not professional artists. Besides, you’re drunk. Look how you’re walking.”
James nods. “It’s big weird.”
“We turned off the smoke alarms once to enjoy some kush before our friend Jake’s wedding.” More ghosts swoop-wander upon the stage. Several have brought instruments. “But we also turned off the carbon monoxide monitors.”
Is that how the ghosts died? Not that it’s my business. Also, who calls weed “kush”?
“Are they back on?” asks Remy, eyeing the ceiling. “This venue doesn’t look well-kept.”
“Who can remember? We’ve been drunk for forty years,” says the original ghost.
“Drunk math,” puts in Eric. “Bad form. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
“You’re not taking us seriously at all!” This complaint comes from the Elvis-like ghost. He must be the ringleader, because at his statement, the ghosts begin vibrating with anger. Yikes. Jokes aside, these are actualghosts, and potentially dangerous. Someone could get hurt. Namely, James. Goddamn it.
I step forward. “Hey, guys, how about—”
Hanry lays a hand on my arm. I can’t help noticing how nice it looks there. Not overly large, but a good size. And in spite of his calluses, he has trim knuckles. All evidence indicates he isn’t a vampire. But also that he might be a misogynist.
“You have strong wrists,” I say aloud. “Now, quit manhandling me. I need to save my friends from a haunting.”
“Dave’s arrived,” Hanry says, redirecting me to the doorway and Dark Dave. The vampire groom is dressed in a tuxedo straight from a 1940s movie, with tails to the floor, and spectator shoes with the white parts blacked out by, presumably, Sharpie markers.
