Page 65 of Ghosted
She walks over to one of the giant plastic cauldrons I’ve filled with candy, picks it up, and thrusts it toward me. “Any other questions? Wait, what are you supposed to be?” she asks, tilting her gross spider head in question.
I self-consciously adjust the fur-covered hood so it sits lower on my brow. “A wolf,” I reply. I found the costume on a fashion resale website. It’s comfortable and thankfully fits well (plus-sized costumes are unsurprisingly hard to find). It's a long-sleeved, gray dress with a furred hood and fur trimmed details on the hem. It goes just above my knees, so I paired it with black tights and boots, so I don’t freeze. It’s not the most inspired costume, but at least I won’t be passing out candy with a side of trauma.
When I turn to gather up the extra candy, Wren exclaims, “Oh my god, you have a tail. This isn’t like, some kind of furry thing, is it?”
I push her jokingly. “Shut up and help me take all this downstairs. It’s almost dark.”
We lumber downstairs, carting enough candy to give each child in Ravenwood a proper sugar high the way god intended. I’m a little nervous to hand out candy tonight, just twenty-fourhours post medium reveal. But it’s my favorite night of the year, and I know I’ll regret it if I hole up in my apartment.
“Rae, how are you?” My dad asks, plowing into me as soon as we open the door. He gives me a suffocating and wonderful bear hug. It makes me feel like I’m seven years old again. And now I want to cry. I breathe deeply to hold it in, lest I mess up my cute, black-painted nose and exaggerated tear ducts.
“I’m okay. Still reeling a bit, but I’ll get there,” I reply, squeezing him back before he releases me. He’s wearing a ’70s disco costume made from shiny polyester and it’swaytoo form-fitting for my tender eyes, so I keep my gaze at or above collarbone level.
“I can’t believe that Misha would do something like that,” my mom says, shaking her head and giving me a much more gentle hug. She’s matching my dad with a ’70s style romper, complete with white, knee-high go-go boots.
“I don’t think he meant to reveal my secret,” I say, looking to Wren, who’s been friends with him for years. “I think he was just shocked and hurt to find out I was hiding my identity. He told me some pretty sensitive stuff about his past before the curtain came down, so I can understand why he felt a little betrayed, I guess. Even if that wasn’t my goal.”
Aunt Clarissa floats into the room, wearing a long, flapper-style dress with a dramatic ostrich feather sticking out from the headpiece pinned to her hair. “Darling! Such dreadful business last night. But! We made a bit over ten thousand dollars with the silent auction, tarot, and your medium meetings. Well, before that went up in flames.”
I resist the urge to scream “I told you so” in Aunt C’s face. I’ve been beating back my anger toward her for pushing me to do this. Iknow it’s not her fault—I’m the one who ultimately decided to be a medium for hire. But it’s hard not to blame her because she pushed so much. She was the one who told me everything would be fine.
I must make a face because she says, “Anyways! Ten grand! Yay us!” She claps, making her bracelets tinkle.
“Well, that’s a start,” I say, rubbing my brow. It’s enough for a couple of months; we can squirrel it away and use it to help pay some of the bills.
“Okay! Let’s set up this candy table,” Wren says, her rubber claws making a dull clapping sound when she smacks them together. Her abilities also make her the best sort of social lubricant. She can sense the emotions of a room and work to shift them. I give her a grateful look and walk over to help her set up our trick-or-treat table.
All the businesses on Main Street set up tables full of candy and other goodies for trick-or-treaters. We all add our own spin on the extras, some catering more to the parents and older siblings taking the little ones around, while others focus completely on our pint-sized community members.
We set up just inside the door, filling the various cauldrons to the brim with sugary goodness. We have a few cauldrons dedicated to non-candy options for those who can’t or don’t want to partake, full of stickers, mini coloring books, some savory snacks, and one full of individual shots of different liqueurs for the over twenty-one crowd (that one is at the back of the table, and is only offered to parents/adults).
By the time we get it all organized, the excited squeals of children promised an abominable amount of candy echo down the street. Soon, we’re visited by the first group of trick-or-treaters. We have a classic Ghost Face preteen, a princess Arielwho looks to be around eight, and a toddler dressed as a cat pawing through the offered goods.
Wren positively scares the shit out of them by sprinting across the room, from one darkened corner to the other, making a terrifying buzzy, clicking sound in her throat. She really commits to the bit, I’ll give her that at least. A piercing scream, followed by loud crying from our tiniest trick-or-treater, makes Wren pull her mask off, sweaty hair plastered to her head. She slowly approaches the girl, holding out her mask.
“Sorry, I got a little carried away,” she says sheepishly to both the girl and her parents. She bends down so she’s eye level and exclaims, “Oh my goodness, are you a dog?”
The girl wipes her tears and says indignantly, “I’m a kitty-cat.”
“Did you say a little crab?” Wren asks playfully, clicking her pincers together.
The girl cracks a smile, before bursting into a fit of giggles. “No! A kitty-cat.”
“Oh, I see it now. Cool ears,” Wren says, reaching out to bump one of the black ears with her claw. “Want some candy? I’ll look the other way so you can get an extra big handful.” She winks at the parents who look relieved they won’t have to decide between forcing a cranky toddler to finish trick-or-treating or forcing an even crankier preteen to go home early.
Thankfully, Wren learned her lesson, so the rest of the night goes by without any tears. She waits to assess the age of the trick-or-treaters before jump-scaring them. To my shock, no one mentions the whole medium thing, but that might have more to do with me disappearing to the stock room anytime anyone looks a little too interested in speaking to me. By thetime we’ve hit the bottom of our cauldrons, multiple refills included, the visitors have slowed to a trickle.
I go outside to sweep the discarded wrappers off the sidewalk in front of the store when movement across the street catches my attention. I look over and find Misha dressed as a baseball player doing the same thing I am. I raise my hand in a feeble wave and drop it quickly when he turns sharply to head back inside the coffee shop.
I guess there’s no more magical hot chocolate in my future.
Which feels karmically unfair, considering we’re heading into prime hot chocolate weather. I sigh, bringing the long-handled dustpan in front of me so I can sweep up my pile.
“Why the long face?” Dean asks from beside me. I turn to find him smirking at me in an honest-to-god pirate costume. Like, a good one. Like maybe Johnny Depp wore it on the set ofPirates of the Caribbean.He tips the brim of his tricorn hat at me like some anachronistic cowboy.
I lean closer and—My god, he’s wearing eyeliner.
“How did you know I have a thing for pirates?” I ask instead of answering his question. I’m working very hard not to jump his bones in the middle of my quaint, small-town-America street. Thankfully, no one is out right now to bear witness to me fawning over what would look like the streetlamp behind Dean.
