Read Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) for Free Online Page A

fluttering bed sheet, that pretend ghost, in my peripheral vision. I cast my gaze toward the tree line, then back toward the fluttering. My heart sinks.
    “Bed sheets and bridal veils,” I say out loud.
    That strange, metallic voice laughs.
    “Vendetta?” I venture.
    This time, there is no response.
    “There are two of you,” I say. Has it been this … thing all along? I think I know the answer and dread washes over me.
    “Ah, close enough, my dear. You are far cleverer than ... who is he, again? Your business partner?”
    I clutch one of the percolators to me. It’s not much of a weapon, but the metal heats my frigid fingers, and the handle is sure and steady in my grip.
    “You are not Nigel,” I say.
    “Again, brava.”
    “Who are you, then?”
    That laugh fills the air. With it comes the absence of everything—the aroma of coffee, the saffron from the tea. It’s as if this thing—whatever it is—sucks up everything with a hint of life.
    “It gives me substance,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “Not much, but I do appreciate your effort. You do make a damn fine cup of coffee.” A sigh kicks up some dried leaves. “I miss drinking coffee, almost as much as I miss walking. It’s strange, really, how much I miss the simple act of moving myself from one place to another. Of course, there are other … pleasures I miss as well.”
    I scan the parking lot, but every time I catch sight of that fluttering bed sheet, it somehow whisks away.
    “People imagine that to be ethereal is to be divine. It isn’t, of course. In fact, you might say it’s rather hellish, especially when all you want to do is stroke the cheek of a pretty girl.”
    That bed sheet appears before my eyes. It flaps as if draped from a clothesline. An edge touches my cheek. Before I can leap back, it entwines itself around my neck. Pressure against my windpipe makes me drop the percolator. Coffee splashes my shins, but I barely feel the heat. All my attention is on getting air into my lungs. I clutch at my neck, but all I do is rake fingernails across my skin.
    Then, in a flash, the bed sheet flies away, once again teasing my peripheral vision.
    “See? It’s just not the same. Now, if I had a body ...”
    I cough, unable—at first—to respond with words. I hold a protective hand over my neck; the other clutches the side of the truck. “Nigel,” I say at last. “You want Nigel. You lured him here.”
    “With some help. You. His brother. That imbecile Doug. You see, my dear, for a ghost eater, I’m the ultimate prize. Of course, I’ll have to do a little housekeeping once I’m inside. Kick everyone else out, for starters—”
    “How does a ghost get so powerful?” I turn in a slow circle. His voice comes from everywhere. There must be some sort of trick.
    The stale silence of the parking lot greets my question. “How does a ghost become so self-aware?”
    Most, I believe, run on instinct, my grandmother a possible exception. But this thing?
    “I am older than your grandmother. I am older than her grandmother. I am older than you can possibly begin to imagine.” The voice fills the parking lot, seems to fill me. “I was here when mankind first crawled from the slime, and I’ll be here when you bomb yourselves back into it.”
    “Then why would you want to be a puny human being?”
    “I believe I already gave you my reasons. Indeed, I may have just added you to my list of those reasons.”
    “Seriously?” My neck aches, but my words come out strong. “Is that supposed to scare me?” I pick up a percolator, although this is only a ruse.
    “It should.”
    I walk around the truck and open the driver’s side door. I lean in, as if reaching for one of the bags of sugar. The bed sheet strikes the windshield. I pull my legs inside the cab and slam the door before it can follow me in. I start the engine. I’m about to peel out of the parking lot, in search of Malcolm, when in the rearview mirror I see that bed sheet