Page 14 of Ghost
“Are you daft?” Mr. Weaver had the nerve to look offended. “I wouldn’t harm a soul. And certainly not my own sweet self.”
I couldn’t imagine why I didn’t believe this kindly act. “You were about to shoot a cat.”
He sliced his hand through the air in response. “That vile thing doesn’t count.”
I held back my gasp, but barely. My initial assessment was right—he was a terrible man. “How can you—”
“I wonder what ended up doing me in? There are a few possibilities. Especially if you say that the beast is missing,” Mr. Weaver mused.
What in the world was his problem with cats?
“They said you killed yourself,” I reminded him. “Some blonde girl found your body hanging off your loft.”
“Oh no,” Mr. Weaver sighed sadly. “Not poor Michelle. She’s such a sweet dear. I do hope she hasn’t been traumatized. Women have such delicate sensibilities. You need to be gentle with them.”
I wanted to point out the hypocrisy of his words—he hadn’t cared about my sensibilities when he threatened to call the police. In fact, he still didn’t seem to care about them. But arguing with him was more than I felt like dealing with at the moment. Plus, an officer might wander into the scene at any time. I had to get him out of here before someone saw me talking to air.
I wasn’t sure what to do. Weren’t ghosts supposed to travel toward a light or something?
I was starting to get a headache.
“Alright.” I rubbed my temples, trying to ignore the pounding that radiated from the base of my skull. “Mr. Weaver, I have no idea what I’m doing. So work with me. Now that we’ve established that you’re dead, maybe you can move on.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Mr. Weaver replied, not missing a beat. “You see, I have unfinished business. I—”
“I’ll eat your ice cream for you. It is a sacrifice that I am willing to endure.” My eyes were still closed. I needed a coffee, caffeine migraines were the worst. “Don’t worry, your dairy will not go to waste.”
“This isn’t about the ice cream, you stupid girl,” Mr. Weaver snapped.
I found myself glancing at him in alarm. Previously he had been acting like the typical, grumpy old man. However, even though his voice held contempt, another emotion was making itself known from him.
Fear.
“You can stop that right this instant.” Mr. Weaver began to put more distance between us as he watched me in suspicion. “I’m not leaving until I’m ready. I don’t care what you say.”
His words only served to confuse me. Stop what? “What are you—”
“Do your job correctly, or don’t do it at all. But I won’t have some untrained novice ruining my afterlife.” He pointed toward the door. “You have a job. Certain things that only you can do now. To begin with, you need to go back into the kitchen.”
Well!
I barely noticed that the pounding in my head quieted into a more tolerable state. I was too offended to focus on much else. “Hey now—”
“I was so hungry, but there might still be some in the oven.” Mr. Weaver ignored my protest. “It had to have been the pulled pork. I experimented with a different sauce this time. Normally I use barbecue. But I was feeling adventurous, and used honey mustard instead. Even so, I could tell right away that something wasn’t right.”
“Mr. Weaver, are you saying that you forgot to turn off your oven before you killed yourself?” I wasn’t sure if I should take him seriously or not, he seemed to be so absent-minded.
“No, you idiot. And you don’t make pulled pork in the oven anyway. Where didyoulearn to cook?” Mr. Weaver rolled his eyes. “Besides that, I didn’t kill myself. I’m not even sure where you’d get that notion.”
“Um…”
“It had to be the honey mustard.” He appeared to be deep in thought. “I was wondering what kind of dunderhead would prefer this to barbecue. And then, nothing.”
I frowned at him, suddenly hungry. “That’s not very nice. I like honey mustard.”
He glanced at me, and his tone was dry when he responded, “My point stands.”
Why in the world did he dislike me so much?
