The Ghost Host: Episode 1 (The Ghost Host Series) Read online

  It’s too cold. A normal ghost won’t turn everything into a deep freeze. My shivering has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with what I know is coming. Frost begins creeping up the sides of the stall. I want to run, but where? Go tearing through the halls of school screaming about a ghost that’s trying to kill me? It won’t go over well. Trust me, I’ve tried. The stall door starts shaking and I curl up into a ball and rock back, humming to block out the noise.

  I don’t have a pen. He can’t make me write anything. The rattling door bangs against the stall walls and I slap my hands over my ears. Go away! Just go away, please! My begging does nothing to stop him. I shut myself down to outside influences as best I can, but his creeping, freaky cold inches its way under my skin, through my body and into my mind. There’s nothing I can do to stop from lifting my finger to the wall of the frost-covered stall.

  Not wanting to look, I keep my eyes squeezed shut as tightly as I can. His influence becomes more forceful, dragging my fingers across the wall, demanding I acknowledge him. I fight as hard as I can, but I can’t regain control. Panic seizes me as I try to wrench my hand away from him, but it’s impossible. Blood runs down the inside of the cheek I’m biting to keep myself from screaming.

  “No,” I finally whisper. “Stop it, please. Leave me alone!”

  A roar builds in my mind, not a scream, not words, just deafening white noise that slams into my mind over and over again. I’m crying, my tears freezing as they roll down my cheeks, but nothing I do has any effect. He smashes my palm against the wall, the force so frightening I look up on instinct. His hazy, horrible form hovers over me, carrying with it unspeakable agony. One indistinct hand is pressed against the wall, forcing me to look at his message.

  Let me go!

  Let me go!

  Let me go!

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I plead. I’m not a reaper. I can’t send him home. I can’t do anything but write his messages. That’s all I’m good for. I can’t help him. He’s got to understand that!

  I can’t hold back my scream when he dives at me. My head hits something as I fall, but all I care about is the white hot fury rushing through my body as he grabs my head. Half a dozen images flash through my mind as I scream and cry, but I’m too terrified to make any sense of them. His presence pushes harder, squashing me under its intensity until it finally becomes too much and I black out.

  ***

  My head is killing me when I finally come to. I’m not sure how long I’ve been lying on the bathroom floor, wedged in next to the toilet. I try not to think about what nasty germs are squirming all over me right now after all that. Reaching up, I feel the expected lump on the back of my skull from where I hit the ground after that psycho attacked me.

  It takes me a few minutes to collect myself before I risk opening the stall door. When I see the bathroom is empty and no one’s called any adults to come help me, or haul me off to a hospital, I realize second hour must still be going on. This bathroom is fairly secluded, which is why I ran to it, but if classes had changed already someone would have found me.

  Thankful I had that one small bit of luck stored away, I try to make myself look less…crazy. My hair has some weird waves going on now thanks to the frost demonstration ruining all the work I did with my straightener this morning, but oh well. Not the worst I’ve ever looked at school. I almost head out of the restroom to get on with things like I usually do after something like this, but a buzz from my phone stops me. When I pull it out, I see it’s just a random junk email, but having my phone in my hand brings last night back to mind.

  I didn’t really have any intention of calling Agent Morton in the near future when I programmed his number into my phone last night. It was more an act of desperation, maybe. Or possibly defiance. Now, I bring the number up and hit send.

  “Special Agent Morton,” a voice says after a few rings.

  “Uh, this is Echo…Simmons. You were at my house last night.”

  “Yes, Echo. How are you doing? No more state secrets to reveal, I trust?” he says in his same even tone of voice.

  It’s oddly reassuring to hear him sounding so casual about it. “Uh, no, but I did have a few questions. You know, about what you said last night. Talking to some agents or whatever.”

  “Yes, I was hoping you’d call. We’d be very interested in speaking with you about your experiences with the ghosts.”

  “So,” I say hesitantly, “you actually believe me?”

  Agent Morton seems to settle in. “There are cases now and again that don’t have rational explanations. There is a team of agents that investigates these types of cases, and I’m one of them.”

  “The FBI investigates ghosts?”

  Laughing, he says, “Not just ghosts, Echo. Anything out of the ordinary that can’t be explained scientifically. And sometimes it’s less grandiose. There are many times we simply work as liaisons between psychics or other individuals who seem to have some kind of unexplained ability. There are many times these persons are very helpful in finding missing persons, evidence, etc.”

  “I don’t know what the FBI would want with me. I just pass on messages. Most of them are just harmless reminders of where someone left their will or whatever.”

  “Not all of the messages you receive are harmless, though, are they?” Agent Morton asks. “Martin Coulter would be a perfect example of that, yes?”

  My heart stops and my hands start shaking. I can barely keep control of my voice well enough to ask, “You know about him?”

  “We do,” he says. “The police found the letter you sent during the original investigation. A handwriting expert swore it was from Martin’s own hand, but that it couldn’t have been written before his death. It wouldn’t have made sense even if it had been, given that his death was an unfortunate accident. The letter was sent to us for further investigation, but short of questioning you, all it did was put you on our radar.”

  “Why didn’t you question me?” I ask.

  “Because you were only ten years old at the time, Echo.”

  The compassion in his voice sinks deep into my soul. If they had showed up at my house asking questions during that time, not only would I have probably lost it, I’m sure my parents would have hospitalized me. “Thank you,” I whisper tearfully.

  “Aside from your age at the time,” he says, “we also weren’t completely convinced it was from you. The return address had your name on it, but you were so young to have such a strong ability. We thought it would be best to wait and see how things went.”

  “So, you waited until I wasn’t such a basket case,” I say with a small laugh. Wise choice.

  “Actually,” Agent Morton says, “we waited until you were eighteen, so your parents couldn’t stop you from talking to us.”

  That actually hits me hard, right in the center of my chest. It certainly causes me to wonder just how closely the FBI has been watching me for the last eight years, but it also makes me realize Agent Morton understands my parents. He gets that they think I’m nuts, that they won’t support me in this. I almost start crying again right there. I can’t even express how much weight it takes off my shoulders to know this guy honestly believes me and wants to help.

  “If I come in, what would that be like? What does the FBI want from me? Would I be studied?”

  Agent Morton chuckles. “Echo, we’re not interested in turning you into a lab rat, if that’s what you’re worried about. We’d definitely have a lot of questions and we’d like to run some tests, but it would all be on your terms.”

  “What kind of tests?”

  “Any medical procedures would be non-invasive, like a CAT scan to see how your brain works in comparison to someone without your abilities. Most of the tests would just be to determine your sensitivity to supernatural phenomenon. Everything would be fully explained and only done with your permission,” he says.

  It sounds scary, but I find myself believing him about the whole not doing anything w
ithout my permission part of the deal. “What does the FBI get out of this?”

  “Better understanding of abilities like yours, and possibly a new consultant.” He says it casually, but I nearly choke on his words.

  “You don’t mean me, right? I’m sure I’d be no help at all.”

  Agent Morton laughs again. “Yes, I do mean you. If the tests go well and you’re interested, I’ll offer you a job. You already have an established relationship with the spirit community…”

  He says that like it’s a totally rational, sane thing to say.

  “And that could be very valuable to us.”

  A million thoughts start buzzing around in my mind. “I have finals and graduation…”

  “There’s no rush, Echo. We wouldn’t want to disrupt your schooling. We could start after you’ve graduated, once things have calmed down for you,” he says reassuringly, assuming things ever calm down.

  I know I might be crazy for even considering this, but honestly, how much more messed up could my life get at this point? There’s only one thing holding me back. “Could I…would it be possible to do all of this…somewhere else?”

  The line is quiet for a moment before Agent Morton speaks again. “Have you decided to leave then?”

  “Yes, right after graduation. I love my parents, but I can’t stay here anymore.”

  “I think a fresh start somewhere new could be a very good thing for you, Echo.” He sounds like he really means it. “Are you considering Georgia, or just talking about leaving in general?”

  Biting my lip, I struggle to come up with an answer. “I don’t know,” I finally say. “Last night, I told Malachi I was coming down for the summer, but I was angry at my parents and upset. Now…I’m scared to go through with it, but I don’t know where else to go. I’ve never even left California before. I can’t even imagine how many police reports you’ve read that start out, ‘I met him online…’ and I don’t want to become the next one, but…”

  “But you feel a connection with Malachi. You trust him even though you don’t know why. Right?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, relieved he seems to understand and maybe doesn’t think I’m completely insane.

  Agent Morton is silent for several seconds before continuing. “It’s not uncommon for people with unusual abilities to find kindred spirits. I can’t say whether that’s true about Malachi, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the connection you feel toward him was more than just hormones.”

  It’s hard to deny there seems to be something pushing me toward Malachi, working hard to convince me there’s a reason we were put in touch with each other, but it doesn’t completely allay my fears. “I’m still scared.”

  “You’d be a fool not to be,” Agent Morton says, “but if it helps, I have done thorough background checks on Malachi, his roommate, and both their families and haven’t found any reason to be concerned.”

  Creepy, but… “That’s reassuring,” I say quietly.

  “Echo, I don’t want you to do something you’re uncomfortable with, but I think Georgia could be a good place for you to find some answers about yourself and your abilities. Starting over somewhere new could be a good thing for you if it’s done right.”

  I know I don’t know this guy from Adam, but he seems to really get what I’ve been going through, and the idea of doing all these tests or whatever while venturing out on my own really kind of freaks me out when I think about letting anyone but him dig into my life and abilities.

  “In Georgia, if I go, who…this may sound weird but, I’m not sure about doing this with anyone else. We don’t know each other really, but at least I’ve met you and I feel like you actually care whether or not I go crazy from all this stuff.”

  “As I said at your house last night, Echo, I’ve been assigned to your case. We’re stuck together for now. If you really decide to go to Georgia, I’ll be there with you. I’ll even set up housing for you in a safe area that can be easily monitored for threats by myself and the other agents we’ll be working with. There are apartments kept under contract for occasions like this.”

  “Really?” I’m blown away by how much he’s already thought this through, like he knew I’d call and want to get away from my parents. “You’d really go to Georgia with me and make sure I’m okay?”

  “Really,” he says, “and not just because I have to. I asked for this case. I think you have a very important ability and you need help understanding and controlling it.”

  “And you can do that?” I ask skeptically.

  Agent Morton laughs. “I do have a bit of experience with this sort of thing.” He chuckles again and says, “I believe you, so how about you try to believe me too. Fair trade?”

  What have I got to lose? “Sounds fair to me.”

  “Great,” he says. “I know you should be in class right now, but I’ll be in touch soon to start working out the details, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  That one simple word lets me finally take a deep breath. Maybe the FBI really just wants to poke and prod to figure out what’s wrong with me. I don’t really care anymore. If there’s any chance of getting some help with these ghosts and being protected while I do it, I have to go for it.

  Moving away from home and meeting Malachi is scary enough, but what just happened creeps back in and chills me to my core. Georgia and Malachi aren’t my biggest problems. Whoever this rogue ghost used to be, he’s attached himself to me and isn’t going anywhere until I figure out what he wants. Facing something like that, I need all the help I can get.

  11: Together?

  (Malachi)

  Entering the restaurant through the employee entrance, I breathe in the delicious scents. It isn’t any one dish in particular that makes me relax, but all the different spices, sauces, and sizzling meats combined. The familiarity of this place eases much of the tension I’ve been carrying around lately. Ever since meeting Echo it’s been a strange and intoxicating adventure.

  Shrugging off my messenger bag, I grab my sheet music out and stow the bag in my locker. I say hello to various members of the kitchen staff as I make my way out to the dining room, only being held up by the sous chef, Henry, when he asks me what I want him to set aside for me for after my shift. As usual, I tell him to pick for me. Everything they make is amazing.

  Before I step out into the dining room, I adjust my tie and button the middle button on my blazer. I really would prefer not to wear it at all, but the restaurant owner, Francesco, insists. If the dinner guests are required to wear jackets, so am I. I troop though the dining room to the exquisite grand piano situated on a raised platform near a huge picture window that faces the street.

  None of the diners pay me any attention until I take my seat at the piano. Only then do several of the closest guests turn in anticipation. I only work three nights a week, but those who dine here regularly know exactly which days those are and plan their dining schedule accordingly. The other pianist who covers the rest of the week is very talented, but he refuses to play requests, and because of that has earned himself the ire of more than one regular.

  Setting my sheet music up on the music rack, I take a calming breath and begin to play. Chopin’s Sonata No. 2 in B flat major drifts through the air of the restaurant, mingling with the quiet hum of chatter, clinking silverware, and other ambient noises. Those diners closest to the piano pause in their dining to watch and listen. Their attention doesn’t bother me—I’ve been playing in front of crowds long enough to be used to it—but my own attention isn’t on the music or the listeners.

  Remembering my conversation with Echo last night makes me anxious. I take my last final in the morning, but she still has another week until graduation. Echo’s parents picked up their crusade against her leaving first thing this morning. When Echo confided in me earlier today that she’s been seeing a therapist weekly since she was six, I wasn’t surprised. Her mother pushing her to take the appointments up to three times a week really made me realize what she’s going th
rough at home right now.

  Knowing it’s largely my fault she’s in this position is tough to swallow. Echo doesn’t seem to blame me at all, but my crashing into her life has only served to disturb the tenuous balance she’d finally achieved. She’s planning to continue the ghost show against her father’s wishes, but she’s nervous for next week’s episode for more than one reason. The rogue ghost who attacked her is causing as much, if not more stress than her dad.

  An hour later when I step down to take a break and get a drink of water, one of the servers and friend of mine, Cerise, pauses beside me. “Hey, you doing okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say with a shrug. “Why?”

  “Don’t know. You just seem kind of off tonight. Your playing sounds different, more serious.” Cerise shrugs. “You want to grab a coffee after work tonight and talk?”

  I almost say yes out of habit, but Echo slips into my mind and I’m not sure what to do. “Uh, I don’t know. I’m not sure I should.”

  Raising one eyebrow at me, Cerise puts her hand on her hip. “Not sure you should? What’s that supposed to mean? Has he been saying crap about me again?”

  The red rising in her cheeks at the mention of her recently dropped boyfriend is a swift reminder of how nasty their breakup was. I’m quick to explain. “No, I mean, I don’t know. I don’t really talk to Evan. I didn’t like him when you two were dating and I like him even less now.”

  Cerise’s shoulders relax a bit and she blows out a breath. “What then?” The bite to her words demands a quick response.

  “It’s nothing to do with you,” I say. “I’m sorta…uh, seeing someone, and I’m not sure hanging out with you after work is okay anymore.” I shrug, feeling stupid for both bringing it up and not having a more concrete answer. It’s been a while since I’ve really dated anyone, and that was high school. Things probably work differently in college, right?

  Eyeing me with a mixture of teasing and surprise, Cerise says, “Sort of seeing someone? Your computer didn’t become sentient and ask to be your girlfriend like that weird movie you made me watch, did it?”