9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

T he closer Friday night got, the more nervous I grew.

Tray and Roxie were ecstatic with the response to the pay-per-view announcement. Over one hundred people—one hundred and four to be exact—had shelled out $9.99 to watch two bumbling doofuses try to conjure up a ghost in a cornfield/pumpkin patch. Grandpa had even signed up and was making jalapeno poppers for him and his new lady friend, Monique, for the event. His joy at seeing me finally doing something with my gift sent him into the stratosphere. Also, the cash flowing in would cover perhaps one-sixteenth of the taxes we owed, which eased his worry a little. According to our finance/promo/arts team—Tray and Roxie—we could easily pull in enough to get us caught up with the tax man, plus start with some improvements to the shop. I might be able to stay at Liverswell U too if we could come up with entertaining and quality content.

Phil was sure we could. Of course Phil was. Phil was the perpetual optimist. I, on the other dour hand, was already sweating bullets. I didn't know of any way, short of performing a seance, to invoke the undead to appear at will. I was not going to appeal to some random ghost to inhabit me, even if it meant I could remain in school, which was good because Phil was at school. Phil might be sharing my Asian studies class if we could get him to focus on his Pinyan more and this ghost hunting side gig less. Case in point, he was rabbiting around the store with his collection of paranormal contraptions as I readied myself for a night spent in a frosty pumpkin patch. Hopefully, the Mennonite farmer was an FIA. How I'd handle a non-friendly apparition while cameras rolled was beyond me. Did running and falling over pumpkins while an irate phantom pursued you count as entertaining content? Maybe. It always worked for Shaggy and Scooby. Cue groovy 70s cartoon chase scene music.

"So I managed to scrounge up an old infrared camera from the film department, but I had to order static cameras from an online ghost hunting store. Oh! A buddy of mine had some night vision goggles, so we have a pair of those too. I wish we had the static cameras for tonight, then we could set up a perimeter and if Farmer Zeke stepped into the circle we'd know, but they won't arrive until next week even with expedited shipping." Phil pulled on the night vision goggles, smiled brightly, and then backed into a bookcase filled with children's books. "Oops."

"You're fine." I bent down to pick up a well-loved copy of Clifford the Big Red Dog and returned it to its place. "You do know that we don't need all these things? I can see the spirits."

"Well, yeah, you can but the rest of us can't. If people see even a few pings, a flash, or something weird then that can be hyped up as a real ghost." He slid the goggles to the top of his head, which made his gold hair poke up at odd angles. He was overdue for a haircut, but I kind of liked it a little longer. Gave me more soft strands to run my fingers through when we kissed, and we did that a lot. "So is Reg here?"

I glanced around. Our resident randy apparition had been rather quiet the past few days. Something that was quite out of character for the marquis.

"No, he's not." My phone alarm went off. "Time to head out. Are we sure all the tech stuff is ready to go?"

"We're good. Tray and Roxie are handling things from his dorm in terms of the website and I'm all up on the feed. As long as we have a good signal, we're golden. Then all we have to do is provide an hour of good content." He grabbed a smooch, gathered up his gear, and bolted out into the cold night.

We. We as in me. Phil would be behind the camera. It was all on me. Archimedes Kee. Weird Asian Queer Guy. Great. It would all be great. Yep. No worries.

I blew out a hearty breath, pulled on my old winter peacoat, and made a fast trip to check on my grandfather. He was in the kitchen coating peppers with breading while warming up the deep fryer. The whole upstairs smelled like a roadside diner. His cheek was smeared with flour.

"Ah, are you heading off, sūnzi?" Grandpa asked before wiping his fingers on his KISS THE COOK apron. I nodded. "Good, good. Our whole Kee family, past, present, and future, is proud."

Yay. No pressure then.

"Well, don't be too proud yet. We might go out and not see a thing." That was a fear that was growing larger with each passing moment. I was not the most entertaining person. What was I going to do if things went south? Teach the viewers how to categorize books?

"Your sight is strong. The lost ones will gravitate to you to seek out guidance."

"I wish I was as sure as you and everyone else." A horn down on the street tooted. "That's Phil. He's beyond excited."

"I like him. He's a good boy. Now go on and make a TV show!" He waved a messy hand at me. I kissed his cheek and slowly made my way outside. Destiny and a hundred and four viewers awaited.

***

I climbed into the front of Phil's truck, buckled in, and gave him a wobbly smile.

"You'll be great. You're super cute and funny and smart," he said over Poison begging someone to talk dirty to them. "People will like you so much."

That was questionable, but his enthusiasm was contagious. As we rode over to the apple orchard, I began to feel a little lighter. I'd watched probably forty hours of ghost hunting shows in the past few days, hoping to glean some tips from the hosts of a few highly viewed feeds. They seemed to fall into one of two categories. One being personable model types with big shiny teeth and abs to die for—why someone out looking for ghosts had to display their abs, I had no clue—or they were uptight scholarly guys who took their jobs incredibly seriously.

I certainly did not possess abs worthy of flashing, and since it was thirty degrees out, showing my belly would be stupid, and I was not scholarly. So what I decided to do was to play up what I had going for myself. I was unique. Phil said that all the time and Phil didn't lie. So I would show the world my specialness. Well, some of my specialness. Not all of it. They would know I was queer, for the word had come down from Roxie that Phil was to sneak out and smooch me at the end of the episode. I was to relay that we were dating when the show began so the fangirls—not that we had any—would get onto the Archie & Phil ship train. Hashtag cute gay couple ghost goals. OMG. It was so adorbs. Whatever. As long as we made some money and no one got hurt, I could live with silly hashtags.

Phil talked the entire time about this and that, his voice easing more of my concerns. By the time we reached the apple farm, I was beginning to feel as if this just might work out. The team had reached out to the apple farm owners for permission to film in their pumpkin patch. They'd been thrilled. They knew a possible cash cow idea when they saw it MOO, as Tray had said. If we did manage to catch something odd on film, the tickets they sold to walk their corn maze would quadruple. So again, no pressure from the orchard owners, but they really hoped something spooky-ookey happened.

The night was brisk, the air not quite cold enough to freeze your nose hairs but darn close. The half-moon was a quirky blue color. Halloween was exactly seven days away. We parked by the apple cider stand, which was closed now, and Phil tucked his cameras and other goodies into a Lions backpack. I stood by the truck, listening to the creaking of the old oaks in the wind, as frost settled over the pumpkins still on the vine. There were no night insects now, just the rustle of some songbirds in the distance. It was rare to hear so many birds singing at night. Owls, yes, and perhaps a loon if they were on the lake, but this song was neither of those. Perhaps a flock had been migrating and settled for the night by the water. The lake was maybe two miles from where I now stood. I hurried to clear the memory of coming to and kneeling on the shore from my mind. Now was not the time to dwell on that day. My skin crawled for no reason at all. I chalked it up to the brash call of a common grackle and followed Phil into the patch.

"I think we should film the intro here with the cider shack behind you, this way the owners of the orchard will be psyched right off the bat," Phil was saying, goggles still atop his head, cameras around his thick neck, and a backpack with other gear on his back. Each step made the drying vines crackle under our feet.

"Sure…okay," I said, my nerves creeping back as he fiddled with whatever was required to hook up to our new website. I stood there with the shack about twenty feet behind me, listening to Phil chatter on about the football game tomorrow and how he hoped I would wear his jersey if I came. As if I would miss it.

He gave me a wink. "Roxie said you could ride with her and the other girls. They have a van that they fill up to follow the team. Your jersey is on my bed. Remind me to bring it with us when we meet in the parking lot outside the stadium tomorrow night."

"I'll send you a text," I replied as he fiddled with the light on his camera. My hands were cold, so I shoved them into my coat pockets. My eyes had adjusted to the moonlight. I caught the silent flight of an owl overhead. I watched in awe as he or she banked over the pumpkin patch, possibly in pursuit of some mice we had scared up, and then disappeared into the apple orchard. When I looked back in Phil's direction, the Mennonite ghost was right between us.

"Shit," I gasped. Phil glanced up from his camera. "The farmer is here," I whispered, and Phil's eyes grew to the size of the orange gourds at our feet.

The ghost looked stern. Quite stern. His face was craggy from days in the sun, his hat sat tidily on his head, and his clothing was functional yet plain. I could see no outward signs of how he died.

"No, no, he's too early," Phil said as he fumbled to pull out the infrared camera. "We're not live for another five minutes!"

"I'm not sure he cares," I softly replied. "Good evening, sir," I said to the specter. He stared at me without feeling. "I'm Archimedes Kee and this man with me is—"

"Wir wissen, wer Sie sind," he answered in a voice that seemed void of any emotion.

"We have a slight issue," I said to Phil, who was now staring at me in open confusion. "He speaks German."

"Oh, well…uhm, can you maybe use your phone to translate?" He was elbow-deep in cords.

"Sure." Duh, Arch. I slowly removed my cell phone, brought up a translator app, and typed in what I thought was close to what he had said. "He knows who I am," I murmured and felt a chill enter my marrow. "How would he know who I was?"

"Probably you're famous among the ghosts. Shit, why is this stupid camera so old? None of the cords are adaptable. Shit. We're going to have to just use a plain light from my camcorder."

"Okay, whatever." Was I famous among the undead? Did I want to be? I looked through the farmer at Phil. The specter then said something that I totally lost because I was staring at my boyfriend and not paying attention. Oh. I just used the ‘B' word. Neither of us had used that term before and now it was just there in my head and—

"Kommon!" the farmer barked, his shout squeezing something inside my head. The pain was akin to an ice cream headache, fierce for a second and then gone. I fumbled around typing that into my phone. Come. I glanced up at the ghost. He repeated himself before stalking off through the pumpkin patch.

"He wants us to come, to follow," I said just as light flooded our small area. My sight went white for a second and then adapted. Phil was on his feet, cords dangling from his backpack, goggles still atop his head, the camera on me. He made a circle with his hand. Oh.

"Good evening," I stuttered, my sight darting from the camera to the farmer in the straw hat, striding along with purpose. "We're Kestrel and Kee. I'm Kee and my cameraman and boyfriend is Kestrel." Phil's mouth fell open. I shrugged. We'd have to deal with the big ‘B' word later. I flicked a glance at our otherworldly friend. "We're on the trail of a ghostly farmer out here at the Schmidt Apple Orchard on Black Point Road."

With that, I jogged off. Phil caught up with haste, and the light from his camera fanned out over the dark field and back to me. I had no clue what to say. Roxie had coached me and fed me some stuff to fill in empty spaces like this, but those notes were on my phone.

"I'm Archie," I huffed, leaping over a pumpkin to keep up with the wraith. "Phil is filming. Glad you could make it. Sorry we didn't get a snazzy intro for you. We had planned one, but then this ghostly farmer showed up and demanded we follow him. So here we are."

Phil gave me a thumbs-up. We followed the man in the straw hat to the end of the pumpkin patch, over a split-rail fence, and through a corner of the apple orchard. We hit a small stream, and that was where I paused. Not because I was worried about getting my feet wet. I'd worn old sneakers, plus the creek itself was jumpable. No. What had brought me up short was the small family cemetery resting in the middle of the vast orchard. I spotted ten or twelve stones, all aged and mossy, sitting inside a small opening where wildflowers once bloomed. The grasses and posies were dead now as were the shapes floating above their burial mounds. About five adults and seven or so children, some in trousers with suspenders and some in dowdy dresses and bonnets.

Phil aimed his camera at the cemetery, and then the light hit the side of my face. "Did he stop?" Phil asked, panning back over the creek.

"No, he crossed, I just…" I wasn't sure I was ready for this. I'd only ventured into the Liverswell Cemetery near our home once when I was about sixteen and had dipped into my grandfather's supply of Baijiu. Half-drunk, I had staggered up the hill to tell the ghosts and ghouls to fuck right off and leave my family alone. When I entered the graveyard, I was inundated with the calls of the undead. They had sensed me. Spirits flew to me, touched me, begged me for help. It was mentally overwhelming to the point that when I finally crawled back home, I had to stay in bed for a week before the pain in my head and heart lessened enough for me to function. To this day, I refuse to touch anything stronger than apple cider. "I'm not sure I can handle the numbers of the dead awaiting us over there."

And just like that, I'd outed myself on a live feed. The faces of the small clan were tense as they beckoned me over. The light left my face. I blinked at the loss and glanced over and up at Phil, who was filming himself.

"What Arch means is that there are probably a lot of spirits over there."

Clever man. He'd just pulled my ass out of a potential fire. "Right, yeah, lots of spirits tend to linger where they have been laid to rest. Those who died before their time in one way or another feel as if they're not ready to move on, so they stay behind seeking help."

"Yep, what my boyfriend said," Phil chimed in before moving the camera back to me. "So we're going to take a short break while we touch base with the Schmidt's to see if we have permission to enter what looks to be a family plot. While we're gone, enjoy some cool music and go fill up your snack attack pack because things are getting pretty scary."

The light dimmed. Phil moved to stand in front of me, blocking off the souls who were calling to me. My head was buzzing.

"Arch, are there truly a lot of ghosts over there?" I nodded silently. My attention was captured by a small girl, maybe four years old, who had so many pox sores on her face you could barely tell where her mouth was. I could only guess that smallpox had taken her from this world. "Hey, hey, Arch?" My sight flickered to his face. He looked deeply concerned. "Arch, hey, baby, welcome back."

"Sorry, there's a few dead kids. I just…dead kids make me feel so sad," I whispered. He pulled me in for a hug. A deep, strong one. I clung to him, breathed in his warm scent, and allowed my eyes to close for a moment. The calls of the dead flowed over me. "They want to tell me something. They want me to join them over there, but I'm not sure…it might overpower me."

"Then we don't do it," Phil said, his breath soothing and moist on my ear.

I heard the wail of the children and squeezed my eyes shut, but their cries remained. "I should see what they want." A cell phone buzzed. His? Mine? I didn't know. The shadows of the Schmidt ancestors shouting at me filled my senses completely.

Phil kept me in his embrace with one arm and struggled to get to his phone in his back pocket with the other. I rested my cheek on his chest.

"Right, okay, yeah, cool. We have to see how Arch feels about it. I think he's got a touch of a flu bug or something. He looks pale. Loop another commercial in or play a song or something. Give us a couple more minutes." Ah, Tray and Roxie. "So the Schmidts are loving this so much. They said we can enter the family graveyard as long as we're respectful."

Dammit. I was hoping they'd deny us access. The call of that loon floated past us. I quaked and whined. Knowing I had no recourse but to do as my genes dictated, I stepped out of those wonderfully reassuring arms, smiled shakily up at Phil, and firmed my shoulders.

"Then we go see what the Schmidts of days past want from us," I said.

"You. What they want from you ."

Right. What they want from me. Sometimes being a Kee was a great big ball of fun. Not.