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An Excerpt from 'Ghouls Just Want to Have Fun'
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll bite. So, where is E.C. Howard, reclusive mysterious mystery writer and all around enigma, going to be in the very near future?” I was thinking that maybe I was being taken for a ride, but on the off chance this was legit, I was in for a penny, in for a pound.“Oh no.” Shelby got to her feet and stuck out a freckled, long-fingered hand. I shook my head. With a paw like that, how could the girl NOT play basketball? Sacrilege! “Serious journalist type that you are I must insist we shake on this deal before I divulge further information.”
She looked so serious I wanted to laugh. Who did she think she was anyway? Deepthroat? And let’s face it. I was not what you’d call Woodward/Bernstein material.
“I’m in,” she said. “For any and all interviews or attempts at interviews with E.C. Howard. Do we have a deal?”
I hesitated briefly. “How old are you?” I asked.
“Eighteen and legally entitled to enter into binding contracts and legal agreements,” she said. “Just in case you thought you could slip one over on me.”
Rats. The girl was too darned shrewd for my own good.
“I’m hurt, Shelby,” I said. “Really hurt.”
“You’ll live,” she said. “So, do we have a deal?”
I wondered what I was letting myself in for, but decided on a bad day I could handle a homecoming queen candidate--even a six feet two, bogus one with a personality only a mother could love.
I put my hand out. “Deal,” I said, slipping my hand in to the much larger one. “So tell me. Where do we find the elusive Elizabeth Courtney Howard?” I asked.
Shelby Lynne gripped my hand with such intensity that pain shot up my forearm to my elbow. “She’s taking up residence at Holloway Hall on Dead End Lane,” Shelby announced, her hand continuing to grasp mine with bone-breaking force.
“Haunted Holloway Hall?” I shouted, a noticeable quiver in my voice. “Holy shit!”
Principal Vernon who’d been hovering in the corner keeping a watchful eye on yours truly, walked over to us, giving me a curt nod. “I believe this concludes your interview session, Tressa,” he said. “I’m sure you know the way out.”
I nodded, familiar with the drill--and the exit. The guy had personally shown me the door a time or two during our four years together.
Shelby Lynne tucked a crumpled up piece of paper in my hand as I headed for the front doors. “My cell phone number,” she said. “Call me for more details.” She gave my hand a final, painful squeeze.
I waved at her and exited the high school under the watchful eye of Principal Vernon. I sat in my car and stared at the multi-colored leaves still clinging to their last precious moments on the tree before a gusty north wind caught them and ripped them from the branches and they became mulch, and railed at the perverse injustices inflicted on those frustrated wanabes of the world who just wanted to get ahead.
Finally. Finally I get the chance at a serious journalistic coup that didn’t involve guns, knives, dead bodies, or clowns gone cuckoo and what happens? My story’s hiding behind the walls of a house only Norman Bates could love.
