The Frighteners by Michael Jahn Read Free Book Online Page A

pulled into the driveway and drove the car to the head of the drive, stopping at the cement mixer.
    “I’ve got to mow that one of these days,” he muttered as he shut down the engine, got out of the car, and hurried to the trunk. As he popped it open a ghoulish emanation rushed out with a whooshing of stale air.
    Bannister jumped to one side as a second emanation joined the first. Then he slammed the trunk shut and stood there looking at them, his arms crossed sternly, like a schoolmaster about to deliver a dressing-down.
    The emanation that popped out first had been Stuart Harper when he was alive. He was in his early twenties when he died, a computer tycoon whose brilliance and millions couldn’t save him from an early grave. Now he had a slightly rotten appearance and continually dribbled ecto-plasmic slime. Bannister could see through him, although not always well. At times Stuart seemed thicker than at other times. His density could have been related to his moods, which was not good after a long day and night’s work as well as several bumpy rides cramped in the trunk of the old Ford. Stuart stumbled to a pile of lumber by the side of the driveway and sat down, clutching his stomach.
    “I think I’m gonna throw up,” he moaned.
    “Not on my driveway you’re not,” Bannister shot back. “Go into the bushes.”
    “What, and get bitten by a tick and get Lyme disease,” Stuart wailed.
    “There aren’t any deer around here, and anyway you’re dead. Didn’t you learn anything with those degrees in art history and theology?”
    “No. That’s why I went into computers. Jesus, my stomach is killing me. When will you ever learn how to drive slow?”
    “When bill collectors stop chasing me,” Bannister said. “Which is where you guys come in.”
    “Man, I hate that trunk,” said the second apparition, ignoring Bannister’s words.
    Cyrus Parks was a black dude from the 1970s, a disco warrior proudly wearing a white disco suit, built-up heels, and an outrageous Afro with immense sideburns. He brushed himself off, taking time to flick an especially large gob of ectoplasm from his wide lapel.
    “I mean, I been in some tight spots in my time—”
    “Like jail,” Bannister said.
    “I ain’t never been in jail, man. That one time you keep buggin’ me about was a misunderstanding.”
    “I think the word you’re searching for is misdemeanor,” Bannister said.
    “No, man, it was a misunderstanding between me and the police. My lawyer got it all straightened out and I never spent one night in jail. Well, not all night.”
    “The victim didn’t press charges or else it would have been a felony.”
    “Can I help it if the man had a wallet so fat it kept falling out of his pocket? Guys like that had no business stuffin’ themselves in dance clothes anyway. I mean, the dude was as fat then as John Travolta is now.”
    He carefully straightened his pants, then whipped out a white Afro comb and began fixing his do.
    “I want to ride in the front of the car from now on,” Cyrus said.
    “I’m not having you spreading your ectoplastic muck over my seats.”
    “Well, I’m sorry, Frank, but we’re not traveling in the trunk anymore,” Stuart said. “It’s impossible to work under these conditions.”
    He stood and stretched. Apparently his tummy felt better. Bannister could hardly see through him, despite the several fashionable moth holes in his wide-knit, L. L. Bean sweater.
    “We wanna cruise in style, man,” Cyrus said.
    Stuart reached into his pants pockets and angrily flung a pile of Frank’s business cards onto the driveway. “I quit,” he said.
    Bannister wasn’t buying any of this. He had heard it before. The staff was always complaining.
    “Shut up,” he said.
    He gave Stuart an angry shove. The emanation wobbled on his feet, losing his tenuous center of gravity. Emanations are made up of loosely compacted particles that can be distorted, scattered, stretched, or squeezed—but always