Ghost Eaters by Clay McLeod Chapman
PROLOGUE
a ghost story
three years ago
Tripping our asses off in the cemetery is Silas’s idea. We dose back at his dorm to give the acid a head start. By the time we abandon campus and hop the wrought-iron fence surrounding Hollywood Cemetery, the four of us are all well on our way to peak fry.
“What’re we doing what’re we doing,” Amara keeps repeating under her breath, a giddy litany. “What’re we doing what’re we—”
“Remember your partners,” Silas whispers as he scales the fence first. He just high-jumps those spikes like a grave-robbing Olympian. Now that’s some gold-medal trespassing.
Poor Tobias can’t seem to find a foothold on the fence. His tattered Vans keep slipping, reminding me of that puny kid on the playground who doesn’t have the upper body strength to pull himself up the monkey bars on his own. He’s too embarrassed to ask for help, shooing Silas’s hand away whenever he offers it. “I got it, I got it,” he keeps muttering.
Amara and I are the only ones left on the street, so we plant our hands on Tobias’s scrawny ass and heave-ho him over. I can literally feel the bone in his butt cheek as we push. From where I’m standing, it looks like he takes flight for a moment, just a beanpole of a bat flapping his wings through the bruised purple sky.
Amara is next. She starts to shriek, practically impaling herself on one of the rusted spears. We all shush her—try to, at least, in between laughing our asses off. She flips over the fence and falls flat on her face. It’s far too dark for me to see her land—Silas won’t let us use the flashlights on our phones—so there’s a hot second where I worry if Amara’s cracked her skull open on a tombstone or something. But she’s cackling like an absolute candyflipping witch, rolling around in the grass, so we know she’s still breathing.
“Come on, Erin.” Silas beckons through the bars. He’s gripping them with both hands, leaning his face through the gap. He’s a convict and I’ve come to break him out. “Your turn.”
I can’t help myself. His face is right there. Lips right there. I lean in and kiss him through the fence. Flecks of rust dig into my cheeks, smearing my makeup. Here comes the lockjaw.
“Jesus, guys,” Amara whispers-but-not-really-whispers. “Get a tomb already.”
Suddenly I’m second-guessing myself: I can’t climb over this. What if I lose my footing and fall on one of those spikes?
“Easy does it,” Silas says. “I got you.”
Silas and Tobias each grab a foot and hoist me up while I pull on the top rail. Imagine a cheerleader pyramid, where these two strapping young lads lift me over their heads and I perform the most absolutely fucking perfect hip-over-head airborne tumble you’ve ever seen, both feet landing directly on a headstone, a total Bring It On crowd-goes-wild dismount.
You’d be wrong. I land on my ass. Hard.
Silas hovers just above me. “You okay?”
“I think I broke my hip.”
“You’ll live,” Silas says. “Take my hand.”
Silas says hop on one foot.
Silas says pat your head.
Touch your nose.
…Silas didn’t say.
The four of us take in the meandering rows of tombstones tilting like loose teeth. The cemetery’s called Hollywood because a few Richmond natives became celebrities way back whenever, returning home only after they kicked the bucket to get buried in their native soil. Everyone returns to Richmond someday. Mostly this place is full of dead Confederates, but there are a few forgotten starlets in the ground. Tourists take photos next to their gaudy graves—but tonight, hours after the cemetery gates close and the only occupants are six feet under, all 135 acres of this place belong to us.
“Follow me,” Silas says. “Watch your step.”
Tobias trips on cue. Tripping while tripping, hardy har. He’s practically blind on the best of days, even with his wire-rimmed specs. Swap out the daylight for some liquid sunshine and add a few granite stumbling blocks and it’s no wonder he can’t stay on his feet.
“Where are we going?” I have to ask.
“You’ll see.”
Silas never tells us what he’s got hidden up his sleeve. That would ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it? He has this uncanny ability to rally the troops, enlist the rest of us to do just about whatever he wants—and what he wants most out of life is to gogogogo. His lust for life is addictive and thrilling and downright exhausting all at once. Who cares if we have to wake up tomorrow morning for class? Haven’t we realized academia is merely for sheep? Silas says we’re better than all the other undergrad lemmings, and who are we to argue? Sounds good to me. He can somehow convince us to forget our inhibitions, to lose ourselves in the white heat of the moment. To hop trains in the dead of night. To embark on random road trips with no destination. To take jaunts through haunted plantations that last until the sun rises over the abandoned tobacco fields.
This city is ours, he always says. The Four Musketeers. All for one and one for Silas…
We found each other through our mutual admiration for postmodern authors during our freshman fiction writing workshop. Paul Auster cosplay, basically. Silas wants to be David Foster Wallace, bandana and all. Tobias called dibs on DeLillo. Amara has an unhealthy obsession with Pynchon, so she claimed him. Silas said I had a Lethem streak in me, but I’ve never read him. L’eggo my Eggers, I said, hoping to sound pithy. I’m ready to be the world’s first Erin Hill. The literary world was our oyster and Silas made me feel like I was its black pearl.
“Something bit me.” Amara groans as she smacks her palm against her bare shoulder. Figures she didn’t dress appropriately for grave robbing. “How much further?”
“Almost there.”
“Can you just tell us where we’re going? I’m getting eaten alive out here.”
“Patience,” Silas says. “Good things come to those who wait…”
A cherub perched on a pillar twists its neck toward me just as I pass it. I stop to make sure, staring at the chubby naked baby with brittle wings. Its washed-out eyes blink back.
Oh, good, I’m not just imagining it. Glad I cleared that up.
Its chiseled features have been sanded down, all the decades of rain and cold weather erasing its face to a gray plane. But it still has its eyelids, opening and closing over two slopes of stone, a pair of rotten eggs stuffed in its sockets. The headstone is too small for an adult.
Oooh, shit…A baby is buried here. Did I just say that out loud? I can’t tell for sure. I run my hand across the tomb, tracing every letter with my fingertips like I’m reading braille: LONNIE NADLER. GOD’S LENT CHILD.
“Erin?” Silas takes hold of my arm, bringing me back. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Stay with me,” he says, taking my hand and leading me through the undulating row of graves—and in my head, I think it’s in my head, I say stay with me, stay with me, stay.
The headstones won’t keep still. The marble flexes. Tombstones turn my way as I walk by. They may as well be dancing toadstools, their inscribed umbrella caps bopping along— BELOVED WIFE. IN LOVING MEMORY. GONE TOO SOON. ABSENT IN BODY, PRESENT IN SPIRIT.
I just have to keep cool. Breathe in deep. Don’t freak.
“What’re we doing,” Amara keeps reciting. “What’re we doing what’re we doing…”
We’re pushing our personal boundaries, I imagine Silas might say. We’re living life to its fullest. We’re turning this city into our own personal playground and howling at the moon. But he keeps quiet, silently guiding us through the bopping headstones.