The Ghost Host: Episode 2 (The Ghost Host Series) Read online

  “Ready?” I ask, needing to gain a little separation.

  Echo exhales, then nods. She’s quiet as we walk up to her apartment. After trying the door and finding it locked, she pulls out her keys and lets us both in. I freeze amid the flurry of activity. The living room is way too small to have this much equipment and people in it. Shoved into the corner is a small desk and chalkboard surrounded by a circle of salt, with cameras placed at various angles between other pieces of furniture. None of the five people milling around the little apartment has even noticed us yet.

  “Kind of snug,” I say.

  Nodding, Echo says, “Yeah, Holden’s looking for somewhere more permanent and roomy, but he hasn’t found anything yet. He’s only been back a few weeks, though.”

  I start to say something else, but Zara finally notices us standing by the door and abruptly changes direction. “Where have you been? I’ve been texting you for the last two hours!”

  “I know,” Echo says plaintively. “I was doing homework.”

  Zara scowls, though I’m not sure if it’s at the excuse or the mention of homework. It disappears a second later when she notices me. “Who’s this?”

  As though her acknowledgment of me lights a beacon above my head, suddenly everyone is staring at me. Kyran frowns, deeply, while Holden raises an eyebrow and glances at Echo. Malachi’s fists clench and he doesn’t waste any time coming over to investigate.

  “Since when have you allowed spectators?” he asks, the frustration and fear in his voice lighter than his true emotions.

  Echo stops herself from flinching away from his irritation. “Since someone asked to watch.”

  Malachi doesn’t respond right away, and his pause gives Zara the opportunity to step back in. Literally and verbally. She’s barely a foot away, grinning at me when she asks, “Gonna introduce our spectator, or make us all guess?”

  A pretty blonde I think must be Cerise steps up next to Holden. They share a worried glance before turning back to Echo. Their friend seems uncomfortable in the spotlight, despite being a YouTube sensation and watched by millions every week. Echo squirms before gesturing at me. “Everyone, this is Griffin. Agent Morton’s son. He’s also an agent and knows…pretty much everything, I’m guessing. He asked to watch us film the show, and I said yes.”

  The final word lays down the law with its force and tone, for everyone but Malachi. “He knows everything? Why? What right does Agent Morton have to be telling people about you?”

  Echo gestures at the cramped set. “It’s not like I’m a secret, Malachi. He told his family about me because he up and left them all with barely a few weeks’ notice, because I asked him to, because I took him away from them. They wanted to know why he left, so he told them.”

  “Why he left, sure, but not everything else,” Malachi argues. “It’s too dangerous. If people realized everything you can do…”

  “I trust Morton,” Echo interrupts. “He trusts Griffin. That’s good enough for me.”

  Malachi shakes his head, and several others in the room seem skeptical as well. “Not good enough. Not for me.”

  “This isn’t up to you,” Echo snaps. “Agent Morton has done more than enough to earn my trust. Even if Griffin weren’t an FBI agent, too, I’d still trust his decision to let him in on all of this. I trust him.”

  “You don’t even know this guy.” Malachi’s voice is dripping with frustration, but it’s the fear and jealousy competing with each other that draws my attention most.

  I don’t know if Echo notices either one, but something has her straightening her back and glaring at him. “I’m a pretty good judge of character when it comes to trust, or I wouldn’t be here right now.”

  The message and emotion behind it are confusing. She’s clearly pissed at him for doubting her, but responds by attacking Malachi with a reminder that she trusts him implicitly. I suspect there are many aspects of their current relationship that don’t make sense, to them or anyone else. While Malachi tries to sort out her response, Zara holds up her phone and waves it in front of her arguing friends’ faces.

  “Five minutes until we go live. Can we shelve this for later and get Echo into position? Please?” The way she says please suggests it isn’t the first time she’s requested they stop arguing. I can’t imagine why. Dad was right. Echo’s life is a powder keg just waiting for the match that will set everything off.

  Malachi keeps up his hostile stance, but Echo breaks their standoff and turns away from him. Toward me. Her hand flicks toward me, freezes, then drops back to her side. I understand why, and wouldn’t think anything of it except for the fact that Malachi tenses and redoubles his glare, this time in my direction. I hold back a groan, realizing this is going to be about ten times more difficult than I first anticipated. Thanks, Dad.

  “Echo, is the guest here?” Holden asks.

  Echo nods without checking the room. She steps away from me, then stops. Her head only turns toward me enough that she can see me from the corner of her eye. “I was right, wasn’t I? That you know pretty much everything your dad does?”

  “Yes,” I say, not worried she’ll be upset by the admission.

  Her shoulders drop in relief. “Then can you…just, uh, stay close? While we film, I mean. Just in case?”

  A slight tremor in her voice catches my attention and I step closer, not caring what Malachi might infer in that moment. “Are you anticipating some kind of disturbance?”

  “Not based off anything I can pinpoint,” Echo says quietly. “Just a weird feeling I’ve had the last few days.”

  “Of course.” She’s clearly relieved by my answer, though I’m not sure why. She sensed the same kinship I did back in Dad’s office, but that has nothing to do with any ability she might think I have to protect her. It’s curious. Zara is gesturing for Echo to hurry up, so I bookmark the question for later. It’s one of many.

  Malachi isn’t the only one who’s bothered when I walk over to Zara and ask where I can stand that will keep me near Echo but out of the camera shot. She, at least, seems pleased I’ll be nearby, and directs me to stand to the left of her camera, just outside the double salt circle. Holden is manning the other camera, and is watching me while positioning the tripod. I ignore Malachi’s buzzing hostility and only glance at Kyran as he leans against a nearby wall with his arms crossed and his gaze focused. Only Cerise is unbothered by my presence.

  When Zara signals that they’re live, Echo smiles for the first time since I met her and launches the show. “Welcome back to The Ghost Host. I’m Echo Simmons and we’ve got an exciting show lined up for you tonight. We’re staying local and learning a little about the history of the state I now call home.

  “As always, everything you see tonight is real. We use old school chalk and blackboards so you know we’re not interfering digitally, and we stream live so there’s no time for special effects. The responses you see will be straight from our guest, communicated through me by automatic writing. You’re welcome to believe me or not. It’s up to you.”

  I’ve watched enough episodes of her show to have her opening lines memorized. She says almost the exact same thing every time, only varying in the description of that night’s show. I watch as Echo nods for Kyran to open the salt circle. Only once it’s closed again does she step away from her desk—which is surrounded by its own salt circle—and takes the few steps necessary to reach the chalkboard. My attention wavers as she writes the rules the visiting ghost is required to obey, and I try to identify where the ghost might be. By the time I refocus, Echo has all three rules written out.

  “Rule one. You are not allowed to physically interact with any of the crew, me included. Rule two. You must answer three of my questions before being able to deliver your message. Rule three. Your message may be of a personal nature, but I won’t put up with any hateful or disparaging comments you can’t prove.”

  Her eyes lose focus and her hand rises to the chalkboard again, no longer under her control. The ghost fina
lly identifies herself and agrees to the rules.

  Phibe Clark.

  When Echo has control again, her gaze darts toward me, no doubt checking my reaction, trying to determine my level of skepticism. I flash her a smile and she looks away. Believing Echo is an easy thing. Not just because of Dad’s experiences with her, but because I learned early on how to evaluate the legitimacy of claimed paranormal powers. A hazard of growing up in my home. Not one I regret, though. Echo is sensitive to a great many things, though she seems unaware of that.

  “Thank you, Phibe,” Echo says. “Now that we’ve gotten through all the red tape, on to the questions.”

  Echo turns back to the board and writes her first question.

  “What was your fondest childhood dream growing up?”

  I watch the process of Phibe taking control of Echo’s faculties, unsettled by how easy it seems. I know it’s an illusion, because Echo is allowing it to be easy for her guest, but it still threatens to send a shiver down my spine.

  Traveling to the planation where I was born, where my parents stayed after I was sold at age four, but I never saw them again.

  That one answer does a great deal to give me a clearer picture of who Echo is speaking with. Everyone in the room—and likely everyone watching—starts paying better attention. Echo promised a history lesson at the beginning. History from the point of view of a planation slave is bound to be interesting.

  Empathy fills Echo’s expression as she reads the answer. Her fingers hesitate before writing out the next question. “What were your duties on the planation?”

  Because I was so small and sickly, I helped the nanny care for the Master’s babies until the Master’s wife saw me show the young ones a jubilee dance and she had me whipped and sent to help with the laundry. The hot water burned and the baskets were so heavy to carry, I got in trouble pretty regular for not doing my fair share. I was twelve when the Mistress beat me so bad I woke up outside my body like this, wandering, searching for the way back to the Creator.

  Her answer took up the majority of the chalkboard, and it takes Echo several minutes to read it. I’m shocked to realize the ghost is a child, but Echo seems to react more to how the girl died. It takes me a few seconds to remember Echo can see her guest. She already knew the girl’s age, but not how she died.

  Echo lifts the chalk to write again, but hesitates. Her lips press together in thought, then she shakes her head and writes. “Were their good parts about living on the plantation?”

  I learned to read and write, Phibe writes. When the children were taught by their tutor, I stayed with them, in case they needed anything, but it allowed me to learn the letters and words. They didn’t think I was smart enough to learn, so I kept it hidden and snuck books from the Master’s library when I could. I loved to read.

  Her eyes scanning the answer, Echo smiles sadly in a direction I assume must be toward Phibe. “I’m glad you had some small pleasures during your life. Thank you for sharing your experience.” Echo inhales deeply after erasing the board, anxiety mounting as she toys with the chalk in her hand. It isn’t only because of her bad feeling about the show. I’ve noticed the last few months of shows, she has taken to hesitating before releasing her control to the guest for their message. It’s hard to blame her, after Malachi’s grandmother’s message brought the FBI to her door.

  Echo seems to decide Phibe holds little risk and nods to her. “You played by all the rules, so now you get to share your message. The board is all yours, Phibe.”

  There’s a moment where nothing appears to happen, then Echo’s hand moves quickly back to the board, words scrawling out hastily, almost too sloppy to read. Halfway through her message, I feel ice creep up my spine. It takes the others a few mores seconds before mouths drop open and eyes open wide in shock.

  The past is vengeful. Life demands balance. Death even more so. What you took must be repaid. The debt collector is coming.

  The chalk falls from Echo’s hand and she spins around in disbelief. “Where did she go?” Echo demands, oblivious to the message still. “Where did she go? How’d she get out of the circle?” Panic spins Echo toward Kyran, her gaze dropping to the broken line of salt. She points at him, angry he broke the circle without her explicit instruction, but Kyran points at the chalkboard wordlessly.

  Echo whips around, still angry, but it falls away as soon as her eyes see the message left for her and not some relative of Phibe’s. I barely have a second to react when her eyes roll back. There are heavy steps to my right, voices calling out, but I’m the closest and get my hand under her neck half an inch from her head smacking into the floor. Dad said Echo’s instincts were good, but he didn’t say they bordered on prescient. There’s no way two weeks is going to be enough time.

  3: The Upper Hand

  (Echo)

  “You don’t have to stay,” I say. “Go have dinner with your dad.”

  “He’s still in his meeting.” Griffin slouches down in the hard plastic chair that barely fits on our tiny deck. Resting his head against the wall behind him and closing his eyes, he provides me an opportunity to study him.

  His dad’s hair is a salt and pepper mix now, but I can guess it was once the same dark brown Griffin’s is. They also share the same grey-blue irises, solid jawline, and comfortable way of moving. Maybe that last one has more to do with being agents than it does with genetics, but it doesn’t really matter. There are differences between them, though, their personalities first and foremost. Morton smiles infrequently, but it seems an easy fallback for Griffin. While his dad’s presence commands attention, his son is at home, blending in to any situation.

  “Why did you change the type of questions you ask?” Griffin asks without opening his eyes. “They used to be random, more surprising. Now, they’re pointed.”

  I’m not surprised he noticed the change. Comments left on the show’s YouTube page and website have asked the same question. Holden told them the questions vary with my interests. That’s not the answer I give Griffin. “Less risky that way. I can anticipate the answers better. One government agency watching my every move is plenty.”

  “Dad’s not that bad,” Griffin teases.

  I huff, though there’s not much force behind it. His dad does get on my nerves plenty, but he’s more of a comfort than anything else. My own dad keeps his distance. He hated the idea of me moving out here, and only threats from my mother and a pointed conversation with Malachi got him to back off enough that we could say goodbye to each other without a fight. It didn’t last long.

  Leaving so abruptly made things difficult for them. I knew it would, but I left anyway. The twins are eight years old, and despite what my parents believe to be my mental and emotional problems, I’ve spent much of their lives looking after them. Keeping a regular babysitter was tough, thanks to my outbursts and frequent injuries while trying to escape ghosts who wanted to use me, and the twins’ knack for causing chaos. The job fell to me much earlier than it should have. After I left, my parents had to scramble to find someone else to watch them after school, take them to soccer, and do all the other things I had been handling for them.

  Logically, I know it isn’t fair of them to blame me. I feel guilty anyway. The twins don’t hold it against me, and only complain that they missed me when we Skype each other. I can’t escape the truth that I chose to protect myself over staying with them. Maybe they can forgive me for that, but I’m still working on it.

  “What were you going to ask Phibe before you changed your mind?” Griffin asks, startling me out of my thoughts.

  “What?”

  Griffin opens one eye to locate me, then closes it again. “The third question. You were going to ask her something else. You changed your mind.”

  Surprised he noticed, I feel it only fair I answer him. “Who owned her, what family killed a twelve-year-old girl because she couldn’t carry a full basket of laundry with her skinny little arms.”

  My jaw grinds together as I picture Phibe again.
Her size led me to notice her in the first place. Hovering at the back of a crowd of ghosts all wanting on the show, she’d almost been completely hidden from view. Something about her expression, glimpsed only briefly when the other ghosts shifted out of the way, begged me to connect with her.

  Her skin and bones stature broke my heart before I knew anything about her. Her clothing clued me in quickly that she’d lived more than a century ago, which hinted at her life experiences. Ghosts that old rarely have messages that would mean anything today, so I almost ignored my interest and passed her over. Something kept pulling me back to her. An insistence in her eyes.

  “Why didn’t you ask her?” Griffin asks.

  I look away, shamed by my response. “What if there are still members of that family out there? I don’t need to be sued for libel right now.”

  “Technically, I think that would be slander, not libel. And only if it were untrue.”

  Rolling my eyes, I say, “Shut up. That’s not the point.” The point is, I’m a coward. Sinking down into my chair a little farther, I wrap my arms around my middle and stare out into the night.

  “You have to protect yourself,” Griffin says. “I get that.”

  His compassion makes me angry. “That’s all I do anymore. Protect myself. At other people’s expense.”

  “Sure,” he says, “because saving Archer was all about you, and not sleeping with Malachi again is only about sparing yourself guilt for taking away his freewill, and the show has nothing to do with helping spirits find closure. The level of your selfishness amazes me.”

  Scowling at him, I turn away. “You know what I mean.”

  Griffin reaches over and nudges me. “I know that you have both power and responsibility, and that dangerous beings want you dead. I also know that you’re an eighteen-year-old girl struggling to deal with all of that, and that sometimes protecting yourself is the only option you have if you want to stay sane.”