Chapter 2
Chapter Two
On a scale of one to delicious, the caramel apple was near the top.
As a kid, Slate would pester his parents to buy him one every time they visited the festival.
The tart green apples encased in a shell of amber-colored caramel were as much a part of his childhood as any Halloween treat.
More than pumpkin spice could ever be—not that he’d admit that last part to Dash.
“See?” Dash said with a mouthful of apple. “Not everything associated with Halloween is a pumpkin-spiced conspiracy designed to rot your teeth.”
Their first visit to the festival, Dash had bought everyone an apple.
The only person missing this time was Liv.
She was on an ERP assignment, but she would be back in a few days.
When she returned, they’d all have to come again.
“I never said they weren’t good,” Slate said, licking a drop of juice from his thumb.
“But that doesn’t mean pumpkin spice is bad. ”
“Heathen.” Dash took an exaggerated bite of his apple.
A sense of peace filled Slate as they neared the wrought-iron fence that bordered the town square.
He’d wanted this life, but secretly worried the reality wouldn’t meet the expectation.
Thankfully, it exceeded his hopes. Dash had burrowed his way into Slate’s being, and now he was as natural as breathing. It was nice without being suffocating.
They grinned at each other as they ate. It felt like just the two of them amid the river of festive noise.
Then the prickle returned.
It was the same sensation as earlier, but stronger. The hair on his arms stood at attention. It wasn’t the hostile energy of the angry spirits trying to tear through the Veil the year before. This was exuberant. Unfocused. A thrumming, messy vibration that felt like a song played slightly off-key.
Dash paused mid-bite, his hand hovering near his lips. He looked at Slate, one eyebrow raised in a silent question. Slate gave a minute shake of his head. He didn’t know what this was. But it was definitely new.
The energy coalesced near the main gazebo, which served as the festival’s central stage.
A folk band had just finished their set to polite applause.
As the musicians packed away their instruments, a flicker of movement caught Slate’s eye.
A figure materialized on the stage, coalescing from the evening air like smoke taking form.
Although he was translucent—and he was a male—like Thomas and Oliver, this ghost was denser.
Not quite solid, but his form was saturated with a bewildering, psychedelic energy.
He wore what looked like a vintage tie-dyed shirt over faded bell-bottoms. His shaggy brown hair was held back with a leather headband, and a string of wooden beads hung around his neck.
It looked like someone had wandered out of a photograph from the Sixties.
The ghost stretched, his arms rising above his head with the languid grace of someone waking from a long nap. He took a deep, theatrical breath—a purely performative gesture for a being without lungs—and beamed at the people below.
A few in the crowd pointed toward the stage. The guy wasn’t visible, but his presence caused a disturbance that blurred the surrounding air. From the smattering of comments Slate could hear, most assumed it was a special effect or some lingering theatrical smoke.
The ghost ambled to the front of the stage, his bare, spectral feet slap-slapping against the wooden planks. He leaned into the microphone stand, even though his voice wouldn’t carry to the mortals in attendance. Those sensitive enough to feel anything would hear a faint whisper in the background.
“Whoa,” he said, his voice a mellow drawl, “Far out. This place is vibing.”
His voice was a low, rolling wave of sound that resonated not in the air, but in the ether. It was meant for spectral ears.
Slate’s hand tightened around the wooden stick of his half-eaten apple. This was the first time a ghost had crashed the festival. Why now? Why had he appeared the first year he could relax and enjoy the celebration?
The ghost’s gaze swept over the festival, pausing at different spots. Most people had drifted away from the stage, migrating to other events. Slate scanned the space for Thomas and Oliver. They stood by the water tanks, staring at the newcomer. Thomas caught Slate’s gaze and shrugged.
On stage, a slow, beatific smile spread across his face. “Man, I always knew this place would be awesome.” His tone filled with the impassioned energy of a late-night radio DJ. He raised his hands as if to bless the entire town.
“To all my brothers and sisters, can you dig it? She’s gone. We can finally come to the greatest Halloween party ever. This is the spectral Shangri-La. The happening of all happenings! And now that mean old ghost is gone and won’t chase us away.”
He should’ve known his great-grandmother had kept other spirits from crashing the annual Festival. She wanted his family to fix the problem she’d created. Drawing attention to the town would make that harder.
Slate dropped his caramel apple in the trash and moved toward the stage. Without a word, Dash joined him a second later.
The ghost was looking down as he paced the stage with exacting steps. When he reached the far end, he spun around and walked back.
Halfway through his return trip, Slate made it to the edge. He waited for the ghost to notice him, but he never took his focus off his walk.
“Excuse me,” Slate said. His voice was loud enough for the ghost to hear, but it didn’t reach much beyond the stage. “Can we help you?”
The ghost spun around so fast he nearly toppled over. His eyes went wide, darting between Slate and Dash like he’d been caught stealing from the collection plate.
“Whoa, man. You can see me?” The ghost’s voice cracked slightly. He straightened his headband with nervous fingers. “That’s heavy.”
“We can see you,” Dash said. His voice sounded calm, but Slate caught the slight edge underneath. “We also heard your announcement about turning our town into spectral party central.”
“Right on! I’m Gary. Gary Torrente.” The ghost’s face lit up again, his momentary anxiety forgotten. “I didn’t think anyone could see me. Most people notice I’m around, but I’m just a weird feeling they can’t explain. You two are the first living peeps I can talk to.”
Thomas and Oliver arrived, and Gary shifted his attention to them. “Welcome, my dudes! You’re the first two partiers to show up.”
“We’re not here for your party,” Thomas said. “We live here.”
“Really?” Gary looked surprised. “I didn’t know any of our kind lived here other than that mean old hag. I’ve been trying to throw a bash here forever, but she always chased everyone away. How come she let you two stay?”
Slate’s jaw tightened. His great-grandmother had been difficult, but she was protecting the damage she’d done to the Veil. “That ‘mean old ghost’ was my great-grandmother. Watch how you talk about her.”
“Oh, wow. Sorry, dude.” Gary’s hands flew up, causing his wooden beads to click together. “Didn’t mean any disrespect. She was just really intense about keeping spirits away from this place. I get it now—family business and all.”
“Don’t insult what you don’t understand,” Dash said. “She was protecting everyone—spirits and the living—from a weak point in the Veil.”
“That makes so much sense now,” Gary continued, his voice picking up enthusiasm again.
“This whole town used to have these dark, gnarly vibes. Like, really heavy negative energy that made spirits want to steer clear. But that’s all gone now too.
The place is cleaned up and ready for a party. It’s gonna be groovy, man!”
Slate never realized the area’s dark aura had frightened other ghosts away, but now that the portal was stable, that didn’t mean it was ready for a supernatural version of Woodstock. He glanced at Dash who just shook his head.
“Look, Gary, you seem like a nice guy, but you can’t use our town for your party.
” Slate gestured around the space. “This is a family-friendly event. People come from all over to enjoy the Halloween celebration. The merchants rely on the festival to make enough money to survive. Hundreds of ghosts showing up will scare people away.”
“Nah, man, you don’t need to worry about that.
” Gary waved his hand dismissively. “We’ll be totally cool.
I swear on my mother’s grave—she died a few years ago, and I visited her plot in a nearby cemetery—that no one will even notice us.
We’re just looking for a place to celebrate Halloween the way it’s supposed to be celebrated, you know?
With joy and freedom and good vibes all around. ”
“That sounds great, but can’t you find someplace else?” Dash asked. “Somewhere without all these people?”
Gary faded, his form becoming translucent around the edges. He flashed them a peace sign with his fingers. “Don’t worry, living dudes. Everything’s gonna be beautiful. Trust the process!”
He disappeared completely, leaving only the faintest scent of patchouli and the lingering sensation of displaced air.
Slate stared at the empty stage for a moment, then looked at Dash. “That could’ve gone better.”
“Was it me, or did it feel like we were trying to reason with an enthusiastic golden retriever?” Dash glanced around the festival, where people continued their evening activities, blissfully unaware of what had just transpired.
Slate nodded and looked at the ethereal friends. What bothered him most about the meeting with Gary was that Thomas and Oliver lost the joyous wonder they’d had just minutes earlier. “Don’t worry, this won’t be a problem. Go back and enjoy the night.”
“Are you sure?” Oliver asked.
“Yeah, we can help deal with him,” Thomas added.
While he appreciated the offer, Slate didn’t know what ‘deal with him’ meant yet. “We’re good. Go have fun.”
He expected they’d be relieved, but they looked disappointed.
“Let’s talk about it tomorrow,” Dash said. “I’m not letting him ruin our night. You two shouldn’t either. We can meet in the morning to figure things out.”
Slate wanted to push back, but Thomas and Oliver brightened. “Right,” he said. “We don’t need to deal with this tonight.”
“Understood,” Oliver said with a curt nod. “We will join you after you’ve had your breakfast.”
Thomas studied them for a moment. “Okay.”
The pair headed back into the festival, and Slate turned to Dash. “What was that about?”
“Didn’t you hear Thomas? He said they live here.” He took Slate’s hand and rubbed it gently. “You can’t tell them to butt out. And they’re ghosts. They can do things you and I can’t.”
Slate wasn’t as convinced the two would be helpful. Oliver in particular seemed prone to accidents. But Dash was right, he couldn’t cut them out entirely. “Fine, but I’ll let you handle them.”
“Is that supposed to scare me?”
“Nope,” Slate laced their fingers together and walked away from the stage. “Just making it clear from the outset it was your idea.”
“Good. Then I get all the credit when it works out.” He lightly bumped Slate’s shoulder. “So, what’s the plan? Ghost-proof the town perimeter? Set up surveillance? Start researching binding rituals?”
Slate snorted at how quickly Dash pushed everything back on him. “What happened to you ‘get all the credit?’”
“You’re the resident ghost expert. I’m just the annoyingly cute, slightly snarky sidekick who gives good advice to his super-hot boyfriend.”
Whenever Dash worked all those adjectives into a sentence, Slate got worried.
Part of him wanted to set protective wards and send stern warnings to stay away or risk dire consequences.
But that would have a negative impact on Thomas and Oliver, not to mention keep out any spirits who wanted to move on.
“I think for now we take him at his word that they won’t interfere with the festival,” Slate said. “We also need to be prepared to act if they become an issue. Making a big deal out of this might draw more attention to the party than if we don’t give him a rallying cry.”
“Good point.” Dash nodded. “Maybe no one will come.”
They walked back toward the heart of the festival. The sounds of laughter and friendly greetings filled the air, mixing with the distant melody of a fiddle band setting up near the craft booths. “You don’t believe that, do you?”
“Nope, but like you said—tonight we enjoy the festival,” Dash said. “Tomorrow morning, if the town’s still standing and Mrs. Finch hasn’t started a neighborhood watch for suspicious ectoplasm, we can think about our next move.”
It was a reasonable plan. Practical. The kind of measured response that had served them well in the past. So why did Slate feel like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop?
He tried to focus on the warmth of Dash’s hand in his, on the sweet scent of cider donuts drifting from a nearby vendor, on the comfortable chaos of their town doing what it did best. But underneath it all, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Gary Torrente’s idea of “keeping a low profile” differed greatly from his own.
They approached the face-painting booth, and Dash squeezed Slate’s fingers. “Buy me another face pumpkin?”
Slate smiled, remembering that night the previous year. The moment Dash had agreed to get a pumpkin painted on his face was the moment Slate realized he didn’t hate Halloween as much as he proclaimed. Or at the very least, he wasn’t so rigid he wouldn’t do things to make Slate happy.
In his heart, he knew Gary would be a problem. Not intentionally, but his laid-back, do-whatever vibes attitude was going to clash with the quiet they needed to run the portal properly. Their Gary problem, however, could wait. He had other plans.
“Two face pumpkins,” Slate said, pointing to Dash and then himself. “One for each of us.”