The Ghost In The Girl

  I would like to dedicate this book to all the Ghost-Hunters, Bigfoot-Catchers, Hoodily-Dink Wobblers and Alien-Snatchers from here to the darkest shadows of Transylvania.”

  —Tom DeLonge

  GOEFF’S THANK YOU’S:

  Thanks to Jim McCarthy for setting me up with so many great projects. Thanks to Tom for imagining these characters I love. I’m grateful for all the youth adventure movies of the 1980s and to everyone at To The Stars for putting together this sweet, sweet book.

  •

  TOM’S THANK YOU’S:

  Thank you to my family, Geoff for being so great to work with, everybody at To The Stars and my friends in San Diego that inspired the story.

  CHAPTER ONE

  This thing—our battle with the evil spirit Yankee Jim Robinson—has been going on for quite a while. Our latest encounter went down last night. Yankee Jim is weak right now and we want to get him before he gets strong again. So, we broke into the Whaley House with a high-tech ghost trap Wiz built.

  Wiz’s traps have gotten better and better since he started making them in eighth grade. This one used cooking oil, electrodes and a chunk of limestone his cousin sent him from Tennessee. Our plan was to sink Yankee Jim in cooking oil and fry his ass on the limestone. It was a good trap, except it was too heavy.

  I led the crew through the Whaley House cellar door. (My name is Charlie, by the way.) We’d stolen the key from a tour guide earlier in the day. I carried a Magnum flashlight—they’re the best. They’re strong and rock hard, so you can hit shit with them and they’re really bright, too.

  Wiz followed right behind me. He wore his gramps’ old-school night-vision goggles and carried gear in a military backpack. He’s skinny, but he won’t let any of us carry it for him, even though the pack weighs a ton.

  Riley followed Wiz. He’s a big dude and he doesn’t drop stuff like some of the others in our crew tend to, so he carried the Mel Meter, which detects temperature and electromagnetic fields ghosts generate. In hindsight, it’s possible we should’ve had Riley carry the damn trap instead of the Mel, which is pretty light.

  I climbed the cellar stairs into the Whaley House’s kitchen. All was dark. All was quiet. The Whaley House is the most haunted place in all of California. Quiet doesn’t necessarily mean good.

  Mouse in his stocking cap, even though it was like 85 degrees yesterday, climbed the stairs and entered the kitchen behind Riley. He leaned over Riley’s elbow and shined his small flashlight. “That thing’s not working, bro. Not at all. No light. How are you going to see the meter?”

  “There’s supposed to be a light on the Mel?” Riley asked. He held up the meter. Lots of ghost hunters carry digital Mel’s that look like handheld computer games. We know better. Digital doesn’t work around ghosts very well. Ours is the size of a game, but has (I guess had, since it sort of melted last night) an analog thermometer and read-out—this red arrow that rose when we got near electromagnetic fields. It did light up, too.

  “We’ve been over this,” Wiz said. “It only lights up if it detects something.”

  “Shh,” I said to all of them. I focused the Magnum’s beam on the door into the dining room. “This way.”

  Just then Mattheson made it up the stairs, struggling with the weight of the trap in his arms. So heavy. A small fish tank filled with oil. A big rock sunk in the oil connected to a car battery strapped to the outside of the tank with electrical tape. “Hey. You smell, like, a fart smell?” Mattheson asked.

  “You always smell that,” Mouse said.

  I pushed through the door and walked carefully into the dining room. Darkness. Dust floating in the beam of my light. The others followed right behind. Once we were all in the dining room I held up my hand. Wiz stopped. But Riley didn’t. Mouse didn’t. They all ran into each other and some oil from the trap sloshed over the side of the tank and soaked the front of Mouse’s shirt.

  “Mattheson, you dirty bitch!” Mouse said.

  “Just watch for Charlie’s signal,” Wiz hissed.

  I’d stopped because I’d heard a creaking. A floorboard. Then, I heard something rustle, like a faint wind through the curtains, except the windows had to be closed for the night. There couldn’t be a breeze. “Do you hear something?” I asked.

  “What? What do you hear, dude?” Riley asked.

  It wasn’t a breeze in the curtains. It was a whisper, a voice. “Somebody’s speaking,” I said. “I think.”

  “Yeah, me,” Mouse said. “All of us.”

  “Shh,” I said.

  And then, through rooms surrounding us, a ghostly voice drifted in the dark, “Hello, boys. You’ve come for me, I see . . .”

  I was startled for a second. Spirit voices aren’t usually so clear. This one sounded familiar, and I worried for a second that Yankee Jim had gotten strong again. I took a deep breath, then spoke. “Yankee Jim, you bastard. Is that you?”

  Whoever it was didn’t answer. The floorboards creaked more, though. I shined the light at the ceiling, then a hiss, like steam escaping a pipe, rose from the other side of the dining room. I aimed the light there. Nothing.

  “Is that you Yankee? I’m sorry I called you a bastard. I just want to end the trouble between us,” I said.

  “Yes. We come in peace,” Mouse shouted.

  The Mel Meter in Riley’s hand lit up. “Hey look!” Riley said. “It turned on!” The meter grew brighter.

  “Are you here, Yankee?” I shouted to the air. Then I turned to Mattheson and whispered, “Get the trap going.” He pressed a button on the tank and the oil emitted a weak, purple glow.

  The Mel Meter got even brighter. Wiz stared at it. “That’s not right. It’s not supposed to do that. It doesn’t have enough battery power to . . .”

  At that moment, a large oriental vase slid off the fireplace mantle to our left. I spun and caught its movement in the beam of my Magnum. The vase hovered in the air and shivered.

  “Check it out,” I whispered.

  “Holy shit,” said Mouse. “Here we go again.”

  The vase moved towards us. The Mel Meter glowed brighter and brighter, until its green light became almost blinding. It began to buzz.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” Riley cried. “It’s burning my hand! It’s burning!”

  “Yankee? Yankee Jim? Are you moving the vase?” I called.

  A laugh echoed all around us.

  “We’re here to end this!” I shouted. “Manifest so we can kick your . . . bury the hatchet. Show yourself.”

  The vase floated until it was directly over Mattheson. “Dude, it’s totally going to fall on my head,” he said, looking up.

  “Talk to us!” I shouted.

  The vase rotated as if tied by a string to the ceiling. The Mel Meter sizzled and sparked. Riley whimpered. Mattheson, holding tight to our glowing trap, stepped to his left, out from underneath the thing. The vase followed and positioned itself above him again.

  “Shit!” Mattheson said.

  “What do you want, Yankee?” I cried.

  My flashlight and the Mel Meter both went dark.

  “Uh oh,” said Mouse.

  “You know what I want,” the voice whispered. “I want you dead.”

  The words hung in the air for a moment.

  “Just Charlie, or all of us?” asked Mouse.

  “Everyone, everyone, everyone,” the voice hissed.

  In the dark, the vase crashed onto Mattheson’s head. Of course he dropped the trap and ten gallons of canola oil flowed out onto the floor. Then an alarm started blaring—I guess it took a couple of heavy objects basically exploding on the ground to set off the sensors in the house—and we tried to run, except the oil was slippery as shit. We basically ended up falling
on top of each other, then crawling, slipping on our asses and knees to the cellar stairs, then sliding like damn sea otters down the stairs while that bastard Yankee shrieked and laughed and laughed . . .

  We burst out the back door, got out onto the street just as the cops began to show up. We leapt on our boards and shot the shit off into the night, dripping oil behind us. Hope the cops don’t follow that trail.

  You know what? This crew, the Strange Times crew, is dope. We can pretty much talk to aliens. We’ve shared burgers with demons. We once rode on the back of a freaking sea monster! But we can’t handle a shitty, pissy ghost named Yankee who is actually pretty damn weak at the moment and not nearly as scary as he once was?

  We actually almost got him back in eighth grade. That’s when he was strong and we were totally stupid! Well, we didn’t come close to catching him really, but we did beat his ass pretty good. We defeated him! Then let him get away back to the Whaley House where he has a total advantage, where we’ve tried several times to get him, but can’t, and one day he’s going to get strong again, and he’s going to come after me and try to kill me again when I’m not expecting him!

  Jesus, I hate Yankee Jim so much.

  Of course, without Yankee Jim there might not be a Strange Times at all. Yeah, really. If it weren’t for the ghostly dude’s murderous plan, Wiz, Riley, Mouse, Mattheson and I would never have gotten together.

  We owe our crew to him.

  Shit.

  CHAPTER TWO

  We were just eighth graders minding our own business, going through puberty and crap. We were definitely not friends . . .

  Okay, I’ve heard this story a thousand times, but still can’t believe the ghost girl somehow went to Mouse and Mattheson instead of Wiz, Riley or me. Anyway, she did, and this is where our encounters with Yankee Jim began, although we totally didn’t know it. This is where we began.

  That Tuesday night, just three and a half days before a big earthquake, just a day before these dudes and I all got stuck together in an eighth grade science project in Ms. Farhaven’s class, Mouse and Mattheson skated into downtown Encinitas, looking for Natalia Carron. For some reason Mouse thought that Natalia wanted him to buy her a frozen yogurt. I know Natalia and I seriously doubt she ever even talked to Mouse. She’s a very stuck-up girl. Anyway, that’s where they were going, heading to Berry Happy Fro Yo on Highway 101, doing what they do, shooting in and out of cars, cruising down the middle of the street, not at all worried about the drivers shouting at them and flipping them the bird, laughing, and making fun of pedestrians, when things began to shift around them. Like the world began to go strange.

  First a metallic smell rose in the air.

  “Did you make that smell?” Mouse asked.

  Above them the moon went yellow, then darkened to red.

  “Whoa. That’s messed up, man,” Mattheson said.

  A blue fog slid like a dead man’s fingers from the side streets.

  “What is that shit?” Mattheson asked.

  The traffic disappeared into a haze.

  “Shit. Jesus,” Mouse cried.

  The streetlights flickered and buzzed. And then a girl—the palest girl in the universe—appeared in front of them, forming out of thin air. Her blonde hair glowed in a single streetlight. Fog curled around her, over her, then broke as she stepped towards them, her ghost girl eyes wide.

  “Ho-ho-holy shit,” Mouse said. He skated slow now.

  “You two stop,” the girl said.

  Mattheson fell and cracked his big forehead on the street.

  Mouse skidded, almost fell, but managed to hold his balance just a foot from where she stood. He looked up into this girl’s face, his mouth hanging open, his eyes popped with fright. The girl leaned toward him and breathed ice-cold breath on his cheek.

  “Cold?” Mouse said.

  “You don’t smell right,” she whispered.

  Mouse almost peed, but pinched and tucked.

  “So, okay,” the girl said. “I’m here, boy. I know you’ve been expecting me. Are you going to help?”

  “Help?” Mouse whispered.

  “Help!” the girl shouted. “I said help! That’s why I’ve been in your dreams!”

  “I . . . I don’t remember dreams,” Mouse said.

  The girl frowned. “Wait. You’re not very spongy, are you?”

  “What do you mean?” Mouse asked, chin quivering.

  “Weird.” The girl stood up straight. She reached down and pulled large plastic nerd glasses out of her skirt pocket and put them on her face. She looked close at Mouse. “Is today Wednesday?” she asked.

  “No. Tuesday. It’s Tuesday, girl,” Mouse said.

  The ghost girl sighed and shook her head. “Oh dang it! I’m not even supposed to be here. And you? Are you even you? Dang! You would not believe how much battery I had to suck to make all this happen.”

  “Suck battery?” Mouse asked.

  “It’s not even Wednesday!” the girl said to the air. “I have to come back tomorrow, I guess. Dang it!” And then, just as fast as she appeared, she was gone.

  Mattheson pushed himself up. He stood next to Mouse and peered into the rolling fog. He said, “Who . . . who was that fine-ass nerd girl?”

  “A super-hot nerd ghost,” Mouse whispered.

  But then it was like someone threw a light switch, the fog disappeared, the world turned normal, which meant cars flew by them on their left and one barreled towards them. It slammed on its brakes, honked like a deranged goose. Mouse and Mattheson grabbed each other and screamed like little girls.

  That’s how I imagine it, anyway.

  Most people would be completely scared and destroyed if they had that experience, right? Most people would think they were going insane if a ghost shut down the city around them and breathed ice on their cheek. But not Mouse. He wasn’t scared at all.

  The next day in school he kept reminding Mattheson (and he literally had to remind Mattheson of the ghost, because Mattheson watched five episodes of The FREAKING Gilmore Girls with his mom after he got home and totally forgot the whole thing happened—that’s Mattheson for you!) that it was Wednesday and Wednesday was the “right” day and that the nerd ghost girl would be back.

  “Today’s the day she will return and take me to the other world.”

  “Maybe, dude,” Mattheson said, a little confused at first. “Maybe you should hide?”

  “No,” Mouse said. “If she comes for me, I must go.”

  “Dope,” Mattheson said. “Maybe she has some fine ghost friends who want to ride around in their ghost Jeep and go out to the beach to do the ghost humpty?”

  “Probably,” Mouse nodded. “I’d be willing to put money on it.”

  In science class that day, Mouse set out to recreate the ghost girl’s fine ass by using balloons and papier mâché. I sat alone at the next table over. I watched them make that ass. I have to admit it was a pretty good-looking ass.

  But the ghost girl wasn’t just mistaken about what day to show up, she’d harassed the wrong dudes all together.

  Okay, you probably don’t know this, but there are tunnels, almost impossible to access (believe me, we’ve tried to find our way back in), running under all of Southern California. These tunnels are filled with spirits and shreds and demons, all forms of disembodied one-time human energy. Down there in those tunnels, the ghost girl had heard echoes (that’s what she called them, “echoes”) about my dad and me and even some weird prophecy about me and a kid named Wiz and especially a spongy kid named Riley and so what does she do? She pops up out of the earth on the wrong day and scares the crap out of the only two guys in our science group who she’d actually heard nothing about!

  It was supposed to be Riley. That’s who she was looking for. That’s what we found out later. And Riley is spongy, it’s true. But, if I were the ghost girl, I would’ve gone to Wiz first.

  Yeah. That ghost nerd girl’s first point of contact should have been the skinny son of a Navy phy
sicist. Why? Because Wiz could actually help. He was the one with access to the proper technology, to the proper smarts. He was the one who quickly figured out how to build Shadow zappers and spirit traps that might capture the things that chased. But instead of going to Wiz, instead of finding the spongy one, Riley, she accidentally made contact with Mouse and Mattheson, who responded by making a model of her butt in papier mâché. Good going ghost girl.

  Here’s what I don’t get. She did somehow know all the Strange Times dudes were connected even before we were connected. Can ghosts see into the future? They do seem to get a sense of what’s coming. How? No idea. Strange Times will have to research that at some point.

  On the Tuesday she scared Mouse and Mattheson, Wiz, for instance, had nothing to do with any of us, yet. In fact, he had no friends to speak of, to be honest. First issue: the dude used to be so weird. He read steampunk shit and he walked around school wearing aviator goggles and a long scarf. Second issue: dude didn’t have time for kids even though he was barely fourteen. He spent his nights and weekends building gadgets with his grandfather. Gramps, who lives in a giant shed in Wiz’s backyard, was an army engineer in Vietnam. He and Wiz built so much cool shit. They even made a helicopter out of an old lawn mower (Mouse crashed it last year, but it did fly). His years of isolation were about to come to an end, though.

  That very same Tuesday night, at almost the exact same time the ghost girl rose from the dead in front of Mouse and Mattheson, Wiz’s dad sat him down in the living room and threatened to send him to military school if he didn’t make any friends his age.

  “What? You have got to be kidding me,” Wiz said. “Why?”

  “I’m not kidding. I’m dead serious,” Mr. Wisniewski had said, pointing his big finger in Wiz’s skinny face.

  “But I get good grades and I don’t get in trouble and I never do anything wrong,” Wiz said.

  “That’s all part of the problem, isn’t it?” Mr. Wisniewski said. “You need to learn how to be a man and that means you have to act like a boy.”

  Wiz’s heart just clanged in his chest. His dad is a first class bag of dicks. Wiz knew he’d actually send Wiz to military school without a second thought. “I don’t know what to do,” Wiz said.