That was the town where I’d grown up. Holly Avenue. Hidden Valley Middle School. Orange Glen High School. We had to be on the outskirts, here in the boondocks, unless a bomb had dropped on Escondido and sent it back into the Grizzly Adams ages.
But I knew that wasn’t the case when I heard a series of rhythmic thuds coming out of the house.
Music. Disco?
Pale lights flashed in the downstairs windows as a different song played even louder over the first.
Buddy Holly rock ’n’ roll.
Randy was laughing as he moved forward, urging me to follow. “It’s war!”
“What?”
“Just come ’n’ see.”
We got to the daylight-dappled porch, where the front door was halfway open. So we threaded ourselves through the slim entrance and went to a large living room that had a circular black metal fireplace sunk into the middle of it, surrounded by shag-carpeted stairs.
Whatever had been making the lights flash on and off had stopped, but wisps of smoke were coming from the fireplace. I thought it was weird to have a fire going on a day that wasn’t so cold.
The blaring music switched from Buddy Holly to Mexican guitars as I took a good look at what was happening on those stairs.
Partying ghosts.
They were in old TV shades of black-and-white, just like me and Randy. Ghosts in long, Mexican fiesta dresses that looked like they belonged in Old Town as the women with braided hair swirled their skirts in time to the guitars. Ghosts who seemed to have arrived from Chinatown.
Nearest to us, there was a black man ghost dressed in a factory uniform; he raised his hands and seemed to wipe away the music that was playing and brought in a blare of ‘forties-sounding jazz. That encouraged an outraged hoot from a teenage ghost with greased hair, a plaid shirt over a tee, and jeans rolled up to his ankles. Near him were a housewife from the ’seventies, a guy wearing Old West garb, and even an old couple who balanced on top of a couch just off the edge of the fire pit, dancing cheek to cheek, no matter what music was on.
The housewife, with her dishwater blond ponytail, pale lipstick, paisley blouse, and flare-bottom polyester pants, wiped her hand through the air, bringing back the disco as the ’fifties teen booed.
Next to me, Randy struck a John Travolta pose, which he’d obviously learned from the housewife, who spotted him and waved frantically at him in greeting.
He went back to normal, shrugged like a dork, and yelled at me over the music, “So what do ya think?”
“I don’t know what to think!”
The ’fifties boy made a high whistling sound and the music stopped. That’s when I noticed that the room smelled like…
I do say, someone in here was smoking the ganja.
Everyone stared at me, smiling at the new girl. Even the old folks dancing on the couch paused to check me out.
“Hey, you all,” Randy said.
“Rand!” they all chorused.
Aw, they liked him.
Randy swept an arm out to me. “This here’s Jensen. Murdered by an ax in Elfin Forest.”
Several ghosts nodded in sympathy during this moment of etiquette, but the housewife spoke up in a chirpy voice.
“I know another ghost who died there. A hiker. You know him? Daniel Ashbury, longish hair, scruffy beard, looks like Jesus a little?”
“Sorry. I don’t.” I would’ve noticed Superstar in Elfin Forest. “I didn’t meet any ghosts there.”
“Oh,” the housewife said. “There’re more than a few. Mostly nice ones, except for the White Lady and the witch.”
My curiosity flared. On the night I’d died, my friends and I had planned to search for the White Lady. After they’d had a little liquid courage, of course. Being the designated driver, I’d been armed only with mischievous bravery.
Randy slurred, “Jensen didn’t hang around her death spot long. She’s a new ghost, got pulled out of a time loop by a spiritual medium.” Sch-pir-tual.
Everyone made interested sounds, and just when I thought they were all going to offer their own death stories, the ’fifties kid waved his hand, brought back Buddy Holly, and the dancing recommenced.
All right, then.
I glanced at Randy, who only winked.
“They’ll get around to talkin’ to ya!” he yelled. “A music war always wins out, even over a new ghost!”
So much for etiquette. But I could handle it.
As some flamenco guitar riffs filled the room, Randy waved me to a corner, where someone I hadn’t noticed yet had been sitting in a lounge chair the whole time. A human?
At least, that’s what I thought he was, with his ridiculously long black hair, which covered all of his face except for his mouth. He was a cross between Cousin It and Joey Ramone, sporting a black T-shirt with a skull and crossbones on it, ratty jeans, and bare, dirty feet.
It wasn’t hard to guess who was the pothead in the room, since he was holding some Mary Jane between his thumb and forefinger and practically emanating smoke from every pore.
I wished ghosts could get secondhand highs.
Randy motioned to him. “This here’s McGlinn. It’s his house.”
McGlinn didn’t move a muscle as he muttered, “Yo.”
“Good to meet you,” I answered, but when he didn’t acknowledge me further, I shot Randy a glance.
The verbose McGlinn took a hit off his weed, and Randy guided me away from him, an indication that we didn’t have to hang around the only human in here.
By now, the old couple from the couch had taken over the music war, airing one of those songs you’d probably hear in a Catskills resort back in the day. You know—all smooth clarinets, soft drums in the background, and lazy, muted trumpets. They were dancing cheek to cheek again, even though, as I got closer, I saw that they actually weren’t touching each other. Maybe they were just enjoying the ritual of dancing.
The other ghosts had mellowed out, some wandering to the power outlets, where they were clearly getting a buzz from sticking their fingers into the sockets and pulling them out. This was what had been making the lights flash on and off. Others were vegging and chatting. The black man was closing his eyes to the music, sitting on a fire pit step by himself.
Randy headed for the main stairway, talking over his shoulder. “There’s someone I want ya to meet, and she’s prob’ly up top.”
He zipped away from me, flying to the second floor. Used to his ADD, I followed.
But when I caught up, I stopped him. “Wait. Questions here.”
“You can get everyone’s stories later. They won’t mind.”
“Cool, but… there was a human down there. Isn’t that a little out of the ordinary?”
He thought about it for a sec. “Yeah. It’s odd to have a human in a house where ghosts are dancin’ around. But his grandparents gave this place to McGlinn, along with a bundle of money, so he has a ’tachment to it.”
“How does he even see us?”
“He can’t, under all that hair. And thass the point, I guess, ’cause it bothers McGlinn that he’s a seer. Thass what we call a human who knows we’re around. McGlinn, though… he’d rather get numb with those smokes than face the reality.”
McGlinn sounded a little like Amanda Lee when it came to living with his abilities. But, compared to him, she seemed really evolved. In a way.
“Then why does McGlinn let all these ghosts party here if they bother him so much?” I asked.
“Did ya see the old folks dancin’ on the couch? Those good-time people are his grandparents.”
Oh, man.
Randy said, “It’s awful, isn’t it? They died here. Double death. Gramps was cleanin’ his gun when it went off, and Gran didn’t wanna live without him, so—”