Chapter 7 Naturally, Everything Goes Wrong the One Time I’m at Risk of Being Eaten #2
That’s such a boy move, not knowing what a wedding arch is, or why its inexistence seals my doom. I set a bloodred tea light inside the hurricane vase, sprinkle burgundy rose petals around it, and release a sigh.
“Theoretically, I’m supposed to make one for Amanda. As a backdrop for her nuptials.”
“I don’t know what a wedding arch is,” Hanry says, confirming my suspicions, “but I’m a decent hand at woodworking, if you’d like some help.”
He seems to be genuine. If only to spite him for drawing me into this mess in the first place, I say, “Sure, that would be great. You can help me escape with my life here.”
Now, only now, Hanry laughs as if I were joking.
And he lights up as much as anyone can in a room that’s basically an ink stain.
Rather than comment on it, I dump the remaining petals at the end of the table to form a flowery pool of blood.
Then I leave Bulan to play fake-Roomba again, sucking stems and scraps from the floor, while I lead Hanry to my rental.
I’ve always had a thing for strong guys.
I think it’s like how people get a kick out of hugging redwood trees they can’t reach their arms around.
It’s embarrassing, but what can you do? I slyly planned study sessions as close to the NYU fitness center as possible.
Once, it resulted in romance—a guy named Marcus and I dated in the spring of junior year.
It seemed like it was going somewhere, until it wasn’t.
Hanry has better arms than Marcus anyway.
I try to keep up a normal conversation and not ogle too much as Hanry handily thrusts all five pieces of the wedding arch over his shoulder. This goal is helped, once we return inside, by the branching hallways’ deep, disturbing darkness.
“Do you think the venue coordinator bailed?” I ask conversationally. “Or got drained?”
“Third option,” Hanry says. “They never showed. Knowing Dave and Amanda, those two would’ve forgotten to put down money to secure the venue.”
I nearly drop my phone. Considering that my phone flashlight is all that lights the hallway, that’d be a bad move.
“Shit, Hanry. We’re trespassing?”
“Maybe. But what’s it matter? We’re surrounded by vampires.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel safe? Why are you friends with vamps, again?”
Hanry jostles the wood on his shoulder. I think he’s shrugging. “We met at a salsa class. They’re nice, as vampires go.”
Wow. I can’t imagine a more banal explanation for befriending nonhuman beings. But I’m also curious about the dancing.
“I had you pegged as a woodsy person.” Or a criminal. “Not a late-night-dancing person.”
“The term I like is ‘Renaissance man.’ I’m full of surprises. To the point I surprise myself sometimes,” says Hanry. “Hey, do you think this is the ceremony room?”
We pause, having arrived at a pair of monstrous double doors made of glass and iron and begging for rust cleaners and Windex.
“The greenhouse? Should be.”
In spite of the dust, something’s visible beyond the other side of the door. A few moving orbs of green light, reflecting in fractal patterns over the greenhouse’s glassy walls. I work hard to ignore the pit opening in my stomach.
“The bride and groom haven’t arrived yet, have they?” I ask.
“Don’t think so. They’re getting ready off-site before their grand entrance.
Wanted to make sure it was dark out before they left for the wedding,” Hanry says, his attention divided between our conversation and the scene beyond the glass.
He frowns but otherwise doesn’t move. Because there’s no sense in standing here, dreading whatever I’m going to dread anyway, I push the doors open, scattering dust over our heads.
“Dave!” I call out. “Amanda?”
Coughing, Hanry says, “Sabby, no. Those folks don’t look like Amanda or Dave.”
No. They don’t. Those folks—who are now visible in the center of the greenhouse—look nothing like our soon-to-be-wedded couple. In fact, they aren’t the least bit vampiric.
Or opaque.
That’s because said “folks” aren’t living at all. They’re ghosts… I think? The six beings hovering in the center of the room are distinctly wispier-looking than regular humans. With gloomy expressions, they’re moving in circular patterns as if on a fixed track, à la Disney World’s Haunted Mansion.
They are also significantly noisier.
“Is that… music?” I ask, pained.
Hanry winces with me. “I think so?”
Goddamn ghosts acting like they own the place. I don’t have time for this. “I am not going to be blamed for tone-deaf ghosts ruining my wedding setup,” I declare.
“Maybe we can ignore them and hold the ceremony on the other side of the room?”
I snort. “Do you think anyone could ignore those outfits?”
Because I couldn’t. The ghosts’ clothes redefine the term “ghastly.” I’m talking puffed silk sleeves and flower crowns; flamboyant suits with untenable pant hems they’d trip on if they weren’t hovering.
One has a vintage silver microphone stand in their skeletal clutches like an Elvis impersonator in hippie busker drag.
Hanry shifts the giant beams on his shoulder. “I’m guessing this is your first time dealing with ghosts.”
“It’s not yours?”
“I’ve heard things,” says Hanry. “Enough to know they can’t hurt anyone. Ghosts are self-absorbed, focused on their unfinished business. Poltergeists are the ones you have to worry about.”
I shiver a little, rubbing at my arms. “It’s freezing in here. How can we warm this place up?”
“Before you suggest it, a bonfire would burn us down in a minute.”
I side-eye him. “Who said anything about starting a fire?”
“You look like you could commit arson,” Hanry says. “You’ve got an edgy vibe.”
“Moving on,” I say, because if I’m being called “edgy,” then this wedding is bringing out the absolute worst in me.
Something that might be bordering on a similarity to Grandma Rose.
“We need to get these ghosts out. Can we make mousetraps? Use ghost pepper spray? Do you think this venue has vacuums?”
“The only guaranteed way to get rid of ghosts is resolving their unfinished business. But that could take weeks. It’s not worth trying.”
I scowl at this and try to manifest a plan. This room is where Amanda’s supposed to join with Dave in actual-forever-love. To walk down the aisle—or fly down it in bat form? I don’t know how this works.
As I fight not to hyperventilate, my phone buzzes in my apron pocket. James, the caller ID reads. James?! Why is he—oh, that’s right, I hired him to come tonight.
Oh. Oh.
“Hey, how is ‘unfinished business’ defined, exactly?” I ask, fixing my gaze on a wannabe rockabilly ghost. “ ’Cause I’m betting we can give these ghosties some new business to worry about instead.”
“Sabby! Look at you, so profesh!”
James barrels out of his vintage station wagon to wrap me in a hug.
The last time I saw him, he had taken a break from interview prep to busk in Washington Square Park.
He’s now sporting a bright-pink fauxhawk, which seems at odds with New England’s office culture.
I’d comment on this, except there’s literally no time.
“I’m super great,” I say after he releases me. “Thanks for driving up last minute. Let’s get you inside. Come on.”
“There’s so much to catch up on! Your new business, your grand-mother. God, I’m sorry for your loss. It was a loss, right? You were so cryptic in your texts.”
“Inside, inside,” I say.
It’s probably best to get him and the band out of the parking lot.
Now that twilight has fallen, the mansion’s pitched roof glows like a marijuana dispensary sign.
James, as usual, has not noticed. He’s not one of those “noticing” people.
It took him almost a month working at his public accounting internship before he realized they were calling him the wrong name, so of course it’s escaped him that this place is haunted.
Moreover, he’s unflappable in the face of my brisk tone.
As is his equally fauxhawked boyfriend, Eric. Like attracts like and all that.
“It was so sweet of you to invite us to play,” says Eric. When James steps back, he gives me a friendly squeeze. “You never know when the big break’s coming. Maybe this is it! We can leave our day jobs behind!”
“Yeaaah,” I say. James and his well-meaning, if slightly less-than-destined-for-stardom bandmates enthusiastically unpack the trunk. “It’s a themed wedding. I told you that, right?”
“You did,” chirps James. “We brought glittery eye shadow and pumpkin earrings.”
“The best we could do on short notice,” Eric laments.
“Look!” The third member of James’s band, the bassist—James called him Remy? I think? It seems to change every other month or so—pulls out a sign. It looks like it was made for a car wash. “I made this so everyone can follow us on socials.”
“That’s so earnest,” I say, because I don’t know how else to compliment him. “Now, I know you’ve got to do a sound check before the reception—”
“Yeah, we should do one of those!” says Eric.
“—but I need you to handle something else first. The groom’s family is making trouble.”
This is a little bit of an exaggeration. A white lie. A white avalanche of a lie. I’m a bad person.
Then again, how bad could my plan be if I’ve gotten Hanry and Bulan on board with it, too?
“What kind of trouble?” asks James, whose giddy excitement remains unabated. I lean in conspiratorially.
“They want to play the wedding.”
Back in the ballroom, Bulan has concealed himself in a garbage can with my phone.
I suspect he’s playing a farming game and mashing in commands with his nose.
It’s a disgusting but necessary sacrifice: while James’s obliviousness sometimes seems limitless, I doubt he would overlook a talking head without a body.
Ghosts, weirdly enough, might get past him.
The Vampire Weekenders take over the ballroom stage, plugging in amps and pedals and crossing wires as they arrange themselves for sound check. Before long, a ghost floats into the reception room and streams up to the as-yet-unlit stage.
“Hey man,” the filmy figure intones. “We can’t hear ourselves reciting anymore.”
“Well, you can’t expect us to shut this down,” says Eric. “We’re paid to be here. It’s a gig.”
“Big gig,” agrees Remy. “We’re the Vampire Weekenders.”
The ghost considers this. “I think I’ve heard of Vampire Weekend.”
“Not the same,” Hanry explains from beneath the wedding arch, which he decided to construct here and carry to the greenhouse later. “They’re a cover band.”
A second ghost appears in the doorway with a quiet pop. Eric and James shrug it off, but Remy jumps back, glancing around for confirmation that something unnatural just happened. I raise an eyebrow at him, which gets him back on task.
“You can’t play Vampire Weekend’s music,” the second ghost says. “That’s copyright infringement.”
“You can’t take this from us,” says Eric, smiling firmly. “You’re wedding guests, not professional artists. Besides, you’re drunk. Look how you’re walking.”
James nods. “It’s big weird.”
“We turned off the smoke alarms once to enjoy some kush before our friend Jake’s wedding.” More ghosts swoop-wander upon the stage. Several have brought instruments. “But we also turned off the carbon monoxide monitors.”
Is that how the ghosts died? Not that it’s my business. Also, who calls weed “kush”?
“Are they back on?” asks Remy, eyeing the ceiling. “This venue doesn’t look well-kept.”
“Who can remember? We’ve been drunk for forty years,” says the original ghost.
“Drunk math,” puts in Eric. “Bad form. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”
“You’re not taking us seriously at all!” This complaint comes from the Elvis-like ghost. He must be the ringleader, because at his statement, the ghosts begin vibrating with anger.
Yikes. Jokes aside, these are actual ghosts, and potentially dangerous.
Someone could get hurt. Namely, James. Goddamn it.
I step forward. “Hey, guys, how about—”
Hanry lays a hand on my arm. I can’t help noticing how nice it looks there. Not overly large, but a good size. And in spite of his calluses, he has trim knuckles. All evidence indicates he isn’t a vampire. But also that he might be a misogynist.
“You have strong wrists,” I say aloud. “Now, quit manhandling me. I need to save my friends from a haunting.”
“Dave’s arrived,” Hanry says, redirecting me to the doorway and Dark Dave. The vampire groom is dressed in a tuxedo straight from a 1940s movie, with tails to the floor, and spectator shoes with the white parts blacked out by, presumably, Sharpie markers.
“So much light!” He braces himself against the wall. Then he collapses with a whimper. “Please, someone, end this suffering!”
Hanry sends me a pointed look, and I know with a sinking feeling that that someone is meant to be me.