Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set

Chapter 4

Kendra wouldn’t look there.

No, not a glance, he doesn’t exist, he’s Ghost Boy to me.

He’d jumped out of the van with its stylized “SSI” logo on the panels and cut across the lawn, grinning above that Brad Pitt soul patch that hadn’t quite filled out. The Future of Horror had his own Web site, Internet radio show, and fan club, and it didn’t hurt that he looked drop-dead hot in his black jump suit. At 17, he was in the range as a lust object without it being sicko, though Dad had already given her the lecture about “boys like Cody McKenzie.”

He was headed for the door and the adulation of the ghost hunters, who were all certain he’d have his own television show in a season or two. Kendra would ignore him. That was the best strategy, and if nothing else, she’d sleep better tonight. Fewer bits of Cody roiling in her fevered brain.

But he wasn’t headed for the door.

Kendra glanced into Cody McKenzie’s eyes. Mistake.

They were the green of oceans and Lime Jell-O and other things that could drown you, salty or sweet.

She kept her sketch pad by her side, not hiding it exactly, but not shoving it in his face, either. She was simply offering him the opportunity to express curiosity if he wished. She didn’t have much in the boob department, not yet, but her art was weird enough to be awesome.

“How ya doing, K-Babe?” he said. “I haven’t seen you since the Carolina Inn.”

“The inn was lame,” she said. “That was urban-legend crap. The armchair ghost of an eccentric professor who smoked a pipe and occasionally ruffled the pages of the New York Times. Hardly what you’d call ‘bone-chilling terror.’”

Cody grinned, like she knew he would, like she was afraid he would. Those big, brilliant Chiclet teeth were the stuff of Hollywood. He probably had groupies all over the country mailing their panties for autographs. Even the boys.

But she could out-cool him any day. She just needed to keep her head, which was hard to do when he leaned close and his breath moved across her cheek like a warm sea breeze. When–

Enough. Emily Dee died a virgin.

“Yeah, it’s a high-priced gig, all right,” Cody said. “What was your dad charging for that one, $400 for an overnight?”

“Basic package. And an extra hundred to go in with the team and hold an EMF meter.”

“My thermograph got nothing,” he said. “I think that place is deader than Bob Dole’s dick.”

Kendra teenybop-giggled despite herself. “You’re the only person alive who thinks a place is dead if there are no dead people banging around.”

“Besides your dad.”

Kendra rolled her eyes and immediately regretted it. That’s sooo Hannah Montana. I need to bring my Megan Fox moves or he’ll ignore me.

“Maybe this place will be luckier,” she said.

Cody looked away from her for the first time and took in the ramshackle, sprawling structure. “It’s got game, for sure.”

The rear door to the van opened and a rotund man in a black jumpsuit like Cody’s–but not nearly as attractively packed–shouted at him. “Come on, Cody, this stuff don’t unload itself.”

“Better go be part of the team,” Cody said in a conspiratorial whisper she found dead sexy. He swiveled and gave a mock salute to Jonathan Holmes, the overweight, bearded man with a dramatic bald dome and a Fu Manchu mustache. “SSI or die,” he shouted.

“Get over here, Future,” Jonathan grumbled. “I better get some work out of you before the cameras show up.”

“Catch you later,” Cody hollered to Kendra, and she imagined his tone meant “Let’s hook up” instead of “Down the road, kid.”

She tried one bit of spunk. “So, how’s that ‘Future of Horror’ thing working out?”

It got him to turn and flash another smile.

Worth it, worth it, worth it.

“The future’s dead ahead,” he said.

“You can do better than that. How about ‘The future’s so dark, I gotta wear night vision’?”

“Sweet. Can I use it for my Web site?”

“Sure. But you’ll owe me a cut of the T-shirt sales.”

“You’re just like your dad. Got that entrepreneurial spirit.”

“Cody!” Jonathan called again, wrestling a metal strongbox from the van.

“Hey, Holmes, that’s my MAC Attack. You break that and I snap your cinnamon twists.” Cody launched into a run, and Kendra couldn’t help ogling those muscular buns in action.

Two middle-aged women came up the walk, flanked by brittle shrubbery that was more twig than foliage. They looked like school teachers who’d taken their Thanksgiving break early.

Séance junkies or psychokinetic spoon-benders? Plain old ghost-chasers? Or maybe they’re in that special class of versatile wingnuts who embrace the alphabet soup of the unknown, from the Abominable Snowman to X-ray vision.

Whatever their specialty, they fell into that category Dad liked to call “paying customers.” Kendra shot one more wistful glance in Cody’s direction as he loaded his MAC Attack on a dolly, then she headed inside to the registration desk.

Time to pass out tickets to the freak show.