Spookygirl - Paranormal Investigator Read Free

week’s worth of shirts would make him stop worrying a little, I was okay with that. “Sounds good.”
    “Great.” Dad smiled again. “I should finish getting things ready in here. I think it’s time for you to go upstairs and—”
    “Keep Buster out of trouble. I know.” Babysitting Buster was the other part of my job at Addison Funeral Services.
    “Thanks for your help, kiddo,” Dad called as I went upstairs.
    The apartment over the funeral home was teeny. The size made sense for a man living on his own, but it was pretty ridiculous for a father and daughter. The two bedrooms were practically microscopic; Dad had been using the second as an office, but he carted his computer and filing cabinets downstairs when I moved in. I didn’t really mind the cramped space—I would’ve gladly slept on a couch in the living room, or even downstairs in one of the display coffins, if it meant more time with Dad.
    I put my sketchbook and charcoal in the dresser drawer where I kept my art supplies, then went back to the living room and looked around. “Buster!”
    A squeaky howl echoed from my dad’s bedroom. I followed the sound and called Buster’s name again when I reached the bedroom doorway.
    The air in the room was at least twenty degrees colder than in the rest of the apartment. The sliding door to Dad’s tiny closet was open; his neckties were floating and writhing in a circle near the bed, like a collection of airborne snakes in muted, mortician-appropriate colors. A nervous, giddy squeal emanated from nowhere apparent, causing the ties to shudder in midair.
    Oh, Buster was definitely here.
    “What are you doing, Buster?” Trying to sound as authoritative as possible, I grabbed for the nearest tie. It whipped away, the imitation silk brushing my fingertips.
    Buster’s taunting, wordless cries seemed to pulse from the walls themselves; it was impossible to tell exactly where he was. To tell the truth, it was impossible even to tell
what
he was. I’ve never been able to figure it out, so I’ve always thought of him as a poltergeist. An abnormal one. He does poltergeisty things, like making noises or knocking stuff around, but real poltergeists are more like pockets of built-up negative energy. They’re not usually actual ghosts like Buster. He followed Mom home from an investigation like a stray dog when I was two and has just stuck around ever since. After Mom died, I let him follow me to Aunt Thelma’s, but after he smashed her favorite casserole dish—an accident
I
got blamed for, since Aunt Thelma insists I make up all my ghost stuff for attention—I told him to stay with Dad instead. Buster’s pretty good about obeying orders when he knows I mean business.
    Well, most of the time.
    He made a trembling shriek that sounded almost like a giggle, and the ties began to knot themselves together.
    “You know how mad Dad’s going to get if he sees this,” I warned, stepping into the middle of the drifting circle of knotted ties. I reached for one again; this time I managed to get a grip before Buster could yank it away. Trying to pull it down was like being in a vertical tug-of-war with a linebacker. When the tie jerked upward and threatened to take me with it, I let go.
    I didn’t mind letting Buster have a little fun, but Mrs. Morris’s guests would be arriving downstairs within minutes, and it wouldn’t do to have an abnormal poltergeist banging around overhead during a funeral service. In the same tone I would’ve used on a misbehaving dog, I yelled, “BUSTER! BAD BOY!”
    Buster’s mischievous chortles turned into an anguished scream; he hated being scolded. The ties wadded themselves into a polyester ball and flopped down on my head. Wrinkled, knotted neckties hung off my shoulders and arms like ropes of seaweed off a swamp monster.
    “CRATE, BUSTER. NOW!” I pointed toward the small, open trunk that sat in the apartment’s tiny living room. The cold air left the room in a whoosh that knocked