I Was a Teenage Ghost Hunter

By Brian K. Henry

Moody sixteen-year-old barista Devin Mulwray is doing his best to ignore bizarre manifestations at his job in the chilly Northern California town of Arcata. Already teased about his recurrent ‘phase-outs’, the last thing he needs is to get pegged as a guy who sees ghosts. It doesn’t help his state of mind that his boss is a sarcastic slacker, his single dad is always on the road with clients and local occult fan girl Nayra is spreading ‘ghost boy’ rumors about him online.

But when violent paranormal activity badly spooks teens at an abandoned estate, Devin’s pushed into investigating by his eccentric friends Clive, a budding composer, and Rex, a tech head excited by ghost hunting gadgetry. At first reluctant to get involved, Devin’s encouraged when Emily, one of the more empathetic girls at Grey Bluff High, is impressed with his daring.

Together the friends explore the creepy Rousten manor. But as the only person able to perceive the manifestations, Devin soon finds himself going one-on-one against a powerful spirit who attacks the locals and infiltrates Devin’s own dreams.

Devin must face his fear of confronting the spirit world and get to the bottom of the hauntings before the specter unleashes more havoc on him and his friends.

Cover art by Christopher Park of Plant Monster Studios

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian K. Henry
• Release date: Mar 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311490926

Brian K. Henry

Brian K. Henry is the author of the fantasy novel HOUSE OF PRENSION and sci-fi novel SPACE COMMAND AND THE PLANET OF THE BEJEWELLED CONCUBINES, as well as the story collection SPACE COMMAND AND THE PLANETS OF DOOM. Primarily a writer of comedy and satire, Brian has also completed seven comedy screenplays, (including ZAK BEDFORD, PUNK DETECTIVE option to Feldco Development), several collaborations with punk-cabaret duo The Tyrants in Therapy and numerous short stories, sketches and, of course, tweets.A California native and longtime Pasadena resident, Henry holds a PhD. in English from UC Riverside and a MA from CSU Fullerton. A die hard CD addict and music fan, his collection spans classical to Britpop to punk with especially large sections devoted to Mahler, Prokofiev, Wagner, the Dandy Warhols, XTC, Morrissey and the Smiths, Depeche Mode, Blur, Frank Black and the Pixies, Bob Dylan, Elvis Costello, The Damned, Rancid and Madness.Henry’s dissertation focused on the works of Henry James, Nabokov, and Poe. Other literary favorites include Don DeLillo, Mark Twain, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

Book preview

I WAS A TEENAGE GHOST HUNTER

by

Brian K. Henry

Smashwords Edition

Text copyright © 2013 Brian K. Henry

All Rights Reserved

Cover art by Christopher Park

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Also by Brian K. Henry

Space Command and the Planet of the Bejwelled Concubines

"I never thought anyone could bring back the wonderfully imaginative,

campy...traits I love so much in a well written way. But you have. Bravo!"

- Kelson Hargis

"Fantastic!! It has been years since I’ve read this kind

of campy science fiction. What fun!!"

- Bill Sprague, Wattpad reader

"Has a very Pratchett feel to it!!!

- Kay Z., Wattpad reader

Space Command and the Planets of Doom

"I loved this book! The adventures...were full of dry comedy. I enjoyed every

adventure Space Command sent their intrepid crew to experience."

– Ramona, Amazon.com

"Fans of Douglas Adams and Terry Pratchett should get a

laugh out of these absurd outer space tales."

– Rick J., Amazon.com

"A how-to of how not to explore alien planets. An adjective laden

macabre romp thru the absurd. Thoroughly entertaining and worthy of note.

– David L. Erickson, Amazon.com

House of Prension

"The author sets the stage for a wonderful novel sure to entertain

and delight. In a few short pages I was deeply invested in the characters

and story….This is a book I would definitely buy."

- Amazon Top Reviewer

"It's as if Thomas Pynchon dropped acid and invited the ghost of

Henry James to tea and Noel Coward showed up."

- Michael Jaye, The Tyrants in Therapy

"This is an amazingly original book…The striking, outstanding thing about

this book is Henry’s imagination and great skill with words. It would be easy

to quote from nearly every sentence in the book in demonstration of this…

This is a book to enjoy not only for its plot, but for every word."

-Gerry McCullough, Belfast Girls

Chapter One

Devin stared through the large plate glass window of the Escamonde Hotel at the dark branches of the walnut tree. In between two of the large, lower branches there was a wispy, white piece of fabric. Or at least, there had been one a second before. He blinked, and saw the fabric again. But then he jerked away and yelped.

A small stream from the cup of caramel latte had burned his hand. The paper cup lay on the floor where he’d dropped it, a pool of overpriced, precious sugary brown liquid pouring out around it. Shit, he muttered.

Isn’t that the fourth latte you dropped this week? Ramona was asking in all seriousness, without the slightest trace of humor. She had somehow instantly turned up at Devin’s side, where he hadn’t realized she was standing, and was looking darkly at the mess spreading on the floor.

Devin quickly wiped the hot latte drippings from his hands on a white towel and began soaking up the remains of the failed beverage with all the recycled napkins and paper towels in the vicinity. He muttered some insincere apologies to Ramona and the elderly lady tourist who looked on peevishly from the other side of the counter, waiting impatiently for her indulgent drink. I’ll get that for you, Ramona told the frail lady without enthusiasm. She went into action on the latte, with her patented, sullenly slow-motion technique.

I want whip cream, chirped the lady, repeating her earlier instruction. She was clearly perturbed at having her carefully planned Arcata idyll interrupted by a teenage barista’s incompetence and was eager to re-join her equally elderly lady friends at one of the café’s little wooden tables covered with one of the hotel’s quaint, handmade tablecloths so they could plan out their birding or antiquing adventures for the day.

Yeah, said Devin. He’d popped back up, a soggy towel in one hand. As Ramona plunked the latte on the counter, he grabbed a nearby canister and shot onto it an unceremonious glob of lopsided whip cream, giving the latte a final, disorderly glop of indignity. The tourist lowered her white eyebrows darkly but took the cup and retreated without another word before some other injury could be visited on her beverage.

The elderly lady, who seemed to be a proper New Englander, was no doubt putting down Devin as yet another surly, incoherent California teen, the kind of kid who hung out after work at the local arcade or bowling alley, smoking illegal weed in the parking lot and trading tales of bad behavior with fellow delinquents.

In fact, Devin considered himself a lot more considerate than most of the kids from Grey Bluff High, the county’s second-most-populous high school. But there was no denying he’d been getting distracted more often lately. And maybe distracted wasn’t a strong enough word. He’d be at work, or at school, staring at some object in the middle distance and before he knew it his mind had blanked out and he was off in some kind of half-trance where any activity or talking around him – the sardonic droning of his math teacher, the meticulous orders of picky Escamonde Café customers, even the usually very appealing British beer recommendations of his friend Clive – disappeared behind an invisible filter. And now there were actual images that had started to appear during his phase-outs, as he called them. Wisps of clothing that shouldn’t be there, or even partial apparent faces that looked like they were floating or staring...

—a few unpaid days off. He’d been so preoccupied that Devin caught just the last few words of Ramona’s latest sarcastic comment. She was the manager at the Escamonde Café, a little coffee house where Devin worked that was integrated into a boutique Arcata inn. The Escamonde Hotel catered to guests looking for a throwback to the intimate, personalized hotel of yesteryear, at least according to its website.

Not that there was any other kind of hotel in Arcata. The big chains weren’t to be found in the carefully cultivated city interior that preserved a conspicuously quaint, historically authentic quality the tourists loved but that wasn’t so popular with the local teens, who would’ve preferred a town center with at least one Taco Bell or Jack-in-the-Box. An elderly Maine lady’s perfect picturesque resort was a teen’s vision of boredom purgatorio.

Devin narrowed his dark eyes slightly at Ramona. He’d never thought she fitted into the boutique, intimate, personalized atmosphere the hotel promoted. Not unless you wanted to get intimate and personalized with an overweight, cigarette-smoking, greasy-haired, sarcastic single mother who lived in a trailer south of town and munched cold hot dogs for lunch. I know, he said, trying to stave her off while not realizing entirely what she’d said. I get distracted sometimes. I try to focus, but before I know it I just get into some zone.

That unapologetic approach wasn’t going to get anywhere with Ramona. Try visiting this place I call the work zone sometime. Some of us gotta spend all day there.

Ramona sauntered off to the other corner of the café. It was a small café, but she was the queen saunterer in residence and made it clear that she wanted to get as far away as possible from her recalcitrant barista. Ramona ended up making a desultory effort at reorganizing the boxes of unsold tea on the wall shelving. Devin smiled half-heartedly at the old ladies, who’d now had their afternoon further dampened by Ramona’s loud sarcasm. They turned away from him and took out their bird books.

Devin took off his black barista apron with relief after two more quiet hours at the Escamonde. Spending time with a peevish Ramona was no treat, but at least you didn’t get overworked at the Escamonde. After the bird-watchers, there’d only been six more customers that afternoon, not an unusually small number for late on a fall Thursday. The big summer tourist season was over and the quiet time at the café gave Devin plenty of time to think.

But that wasn’t always an advantage when his thoughts kept drifting back to his numerous unwanted episodes of distraction.

He ran into Nayra outside the candle shop. It wasn’t a shop devoted exclusively to candles, but the large racks of handmade black currant, peach, cranberry and ocean mist-scented wax pillars, along with a few dozen other scent varieties crowding the windows, had always defined the shop’s identity. Nayra was often found there, talking to the owner about her newest shipment of Tibetan amulets or Wiccan figurines.

Not that Nayra was a Wiccan. Or a Buddhist. But she gave a casual acquaintance the impression she could be either, with her array of flowing, loose-fitting clothes, vaguely Asian or pagan exotic jewelry and long, puffed-up, raven-black hair.

You had another phase-out, didn’t you? was Nayra’s greeting, as she looked up from a candleholder shaped like a Mexican cow skull. She often drove straight to the heart of a conversation without any of the preliminary niceties that average people found necessary.

Why do you say that?

I see it in your eyes. That distant dark, soulful look in your eyes. Another phase-out.

I guess so.

Nayra stared at him intently. You do have good eyes for that spiritual look, dark and bottomless.

Uh, thanks.

Nayra put down the cow skull and drifted away from the shelf. The spiritual literature is filled with experiences just like yours. People who find their days interspersed with strange manifestations, insinuations. Vague and mysterious hints of an alternate world. Nayra stopped short. She’d led the way out onto the sidewalk and faced Devin head-on, putting her hands on his shoulders in a gesture meant to be reassuring. You’re not alone.

Devin looked down sideways at the large black widow spider ring on Nayra’s right hand. I didn’t think I was. Really.

Nayra removed her hands and continued walking. The exact nature of your phase-outs are what perplex me. Do you like lemon?

Why? Are phase-outs, like, citrus related?

No. They have lemon-melon ice cream this week on special at the Freezer Cup.

Yeah. I guess lemon is cool.

As they stood in line at the Freezer Cup, Nayra continued to analyze Devin’s phase-outs. I’ve been reading up on the Battleton sisters. Are you familiar with their case?

Devin shook his head, letting some of his shaggy black hair fall into his eyes. He wasn’t too comfortable with Nayra talking about his phase-outs in public. There were kids in line from Grey Bluff High and all he needed was for word to get around that he was some sort of tweaked out, wanna-be psychic nutcase or something. I’ve never heard of them, he said. Hopefully she’d go on talking about the Battleton sisters and their troubles, whatever they were, and leave him out of it.

Well, you should look into their story. They were two of the best-known spiritualists in Victorian England. Deirdre Battleton was a military widow who saw visions of her husband in all sorts of public places long after he died, dressed in full military regalia, mind you. But she’d have phase-outs at all kinds of awkward times. Once the sisters were doing a séance with this old major and his wife. The major had paid a lot for the séance but Deirdre just stopped in the middle of her spirit invocation and stared out the window motionlessly for half an hour. Her sister Penelope couldn’t bring her back.

Devin gave Nayra a skeptical glance. Of all things, she had to compare him to some old widow in England? Really? She couldn’t think of anyone more appropriate? More modern or masculine? So what happened? he asked a little sulkily, since Nayra had fallen into one of her pregnant silences and clearly wasn’t going to continue until he said something.

She finally started back to life with an unearthly shriek! and Nayra gave a kind of shriek herself on the last word, causing the blonde girls in front of them to turn around with annoyed and startled expressions.

Can we talk about this later? asked Devin.

Nayra ignored him. After everyone calmed down, Deirdre explained that she’d seen a vision of her husband across the street whipping a dark-skinned man.

That’s kinky.

Not really. He’d been part of the colonial administration in India.

So what happened with the séance?

That’s not the point, replied Nayra. Medium Lemon-Melon with orange sprinkles, she ordered, having reached the counter, then turned back to Devin. The point is we don’t want you getting to the stage of seeing dead people all over the place.

Devin sighed as the Freezer Cup clerk, an overweight boy with a bad complexion, gave them a surly, mocking smile. Devin ordered quickly, getting a plain lemon cup, which was the fastest thing to order. He had visions of the obnoxious clerk spitting out pulp from his own Freezer Cup smoothie later, while he laughed with his friends about the guy who was seeing visions of dead people.

Let’s go outside.

I always sit under the vine, Nayra replied, pointing to a monstrous purplish-gray plant on a shelf. That’s where I feel the most energy circulating.

Devin scrunched further into his jacket, feeling the eyes of all the Freezer Cup clients on them as they walked to Nayra’s favorite table.

Chapter Two

Clive struck the last few notes of his latest composition. They were all at the far right end of the piano, tinkling high notes that sounded like a sort of spooky wind chime gone berserk. 

Devin had walked in the room a few moments before, but he knew better than to interrupt his friend when he was in the middle of playing a piece. Few things irritated Clive Welter-Manes more than being startled out of a performance. 

At the moment, he was still bent over the keyboard, waiting for the last resonance of sound to dissipate, his long, curvy blonde hair dangling in front of his forehead and down the back of his baggy black sweatshirt. After holding this pose for a few dramatic seconds, he turned his head to the right and realized he wasn't alone. Dev. What's up? 

That sounds pretty cool. 

Clive sat up on the piano bench and brushed his hair back. He had a pale face that appeared to have inherited all its characteristics from the many English ancestors in his family tree. With the black garb and disordered hair, he looked every inch the distracted artist. He even spoke with a slight British accent, leftover from his first five years of life spent in London.

Thanks, man. It's called Ants of the Mortuary Recessional. 

Clive Welter-Manes was perhaps the only student at Grey Bluff High who was not only a devoted pianophile and classical music fanatic, but also a budding avant-garde composer. He wrote a never-ending cascade of short pieces with titles like Caramel Nightgown Pursuit, Stuffed Dog Dissection and Intercession of the Pallid Stalker. He was currently working on a larger cycle of works under the morose umbrella title Ants of the Mortuary. Devin had been treated to a private recital of several earlier installments in the group and had pronounced them suitably creepy. 

Is that last part supposed to be the little ant feet, walking on a body? 

Clive frowned slightly, standing up. Don't be so literal. Not every note has to go with some comic book image. Want a Coke? 

Devin nodded and they moved into the Welter-Manes' gleaming kitchen. When Devin had first visited the Welter-Mane house he'd half-expected a proper butler to answer the door, or Clive's mother to offer them a tray of tea and scones, or ask him to stay for a dinner of fish and chips. But Clive and his family had become comfortably Americanized. Their British heritage tended to come out only in certain minor traits, like Clive's refined musical tastes or his mother's fondness for Judi Dench movies. 

What'd you do at work? Clive asked. 

Make coffee, Devin answered sulkily. 

Ah. 

Not only did Clive have interesting English parents and a precocious talent for writing macabre piano works, but he also avoided the boring world of typical afterschool teenage jobs by helping out at his mother's eclectic used bookstore, Odds and Sods. Arcata was exactly the kind of town where an eccentric bookshop likes Odds and Sods could still survive, while the more mundanely-oriented big city suburbs complacently rolled over and happily made do with their giant book superstores. Odds and Sods was classic Arcata quirky, with its own eccentric cat, ratty black sofa, random selection of antiques and even a slightly rusted suit of armor. 

Clive took a seat on a barstool and launched directly into a new topic. Nayra said you saw a spirit or something and spilled latte all over the floor. 

Devin spit up part of his Coke on the Welter-Manes' stainless steel kitchen island. She said what? 

Well, it's true isn't it? I mean you have these little episodes. Shouldn't be a surprise you see a manifestation of some sort. Clive looked at him over his soda, looking every bit as urbane as if he was holding a glass of fine Scotch instead of a mass-marketed American soft drink. Maybe it was his slight resemblance to a young Jude Law that always made Devin think of him as absurdly classy. 

Episodes? Manifestations? Is that what you guys talk about when you discuss me? Devin had visions of people trading photos of him around Facebook with snarky captions, maybe referencing old Spielberg movies or The Sixth Sense. 

It's nothing to freak out over. My Aunt Stephanie had some of those experiences, back in the old country. 

Oh, jeez. Not another eccentric old Brit. 

No, she's pretty hot, honestly. Just turned 35 and still quite the looker. She and her husband run an old Bed and Breakfast in Cornwall. They got a resident haunt. Old Colonel Monckton they call him. Pops out of the potting shed and does some marching around the lawn every November, uniform and all, regular as clockwork. 

Look, I haven't seen any ghost Colonels running around. Or Indian majors. Or spirits or banshees or anything else. I just get distracted sometimes. Zone out, whatever. It's totally normal. Nothing to freak out about. 

That's not what I heard. The retort was from Rex Hisakawa, who'd just appeared from the living room. He pocketed his smartphone. Nayra says you saw a creature from another world. 

Another dimension, corrected Clive. 

Devin felt surrounded. Nayra's been telling this to everyone in town? 

No, corrected Rex, going to the refrigerator. Just everyone on MyGhost. Your desktop's fine by the way, he informed Clive, grabbing a Vitamin Water. I just had to update your virus protection. 

Wait, interrupted Devin. MyGhost? What the hell is MyGhost? 

What's it sound like? It's the premiere social network for ghost nuts. Nayra's got really cool wallpaper on her profile. It's like some ancient British ghost wearing a clock and sitting in an old black carriage or something. Totally Gothic! 

Victorian, corrected Clive. 

What'd she post about me? 

Just something about 'latest manifestation at the hotel'. 

Latest! Jesus, I'm dead. I'm a walking certified freak. Nayra's the biggest gossip in the whole freakin' town. Devin stared off through the kitchen's huge picture window, almost as though seeing another manifestation, but actually just stunned into annoyed disbelief. 

I wouldn't worry about it, advised Rex. There's only like 100,000 members on that whole site, and half of them live in Romania or something. 

The point is not what Nayra posts or doesn't post. Forget about that, said Clive. The point is you've got a talent or something going on here. Clive fixed him with an intent stare, as though trying to see into Devin's mind and get a better sense of his abilities. You should be trying to work on that, bring it out. Not suppress it. 

Are you insane? You want me to focus more on zoning out so I can screw up at work and spill more drinks? Get Ramona angrier? Then get fired? So I'll not only be a wacko but a jobless wacko? 

Look, what if you're getting these episodes at work because you're ignoring this ability the rest of the time? It's bubbling under the surface and you don't even notice it or give it a chance, but when you're distracted doing something else, it takes advantage of a weak moment and breaks out, like a child you stop monitoring who suddenly starts playing Mortal Kombat. 

Or like a desperado, breaking out of jail when the sheriff's passed out drunk, suggested Rex. 

Exactly, continued Clive. You probably just need to discipline your abilities. You know, work on some training. 

Training? Training for what? 

Rex moved as though grabbing for the phone book. Let me check Paranormal Coaches in the Yellow Pages. He guffawed. 

There's nothing paranormal here, disputed Devin. I'm probably just stressed. Tired out. With all these AP classes, dad pushing me to get into Stanford. Work. Too much caffeine. Who knows? 

Clive pulled out his own smartphone. Look, I'll call my mom's therapist. She goes to this great guy. He could probably straighten you out. 

Therapist? Devin shook his head. Go to a therapist? So Nayra and whoever can let everyone know I'm a nutcase along with being a freak? No thanks. Great friendly advice, but no thanks. I gotta do some history homework. 

Devin put down his half-finished soda and headed out.

When he got home, Devin's dad was putting some potatoes on the table. They weren't scalloped or baked potatoes fresh from the oven, but some kind of rosemary-and-thyme pre-cooked organic potatoes Brendan Mulwray had picked up at a local co-op healthy foods market on the way home from his law office, along with a few cuts of organically-fed roast pork and packaged mixed greens.

Brendan was forever spending late nights in his office and when he did make it home for dinner, it was rarely an occasion to practice his limited cooking skills. But he did his best to put together a sit-down father and son meal on most nights out of some store-bought components. 

As they ate, Brendan had the usual questions about school and work. Devin responded with his usual complaints about Ramona's attitude, but veered away from any mention of the image seen through the window or Nayra's gossiping. Ever since his phase-outs had started, Devin had vigilantly avoided any mention of them in front of his father. There was no telling what spiral of counseling and psychiatric appointments a mention of such abnormal episodes would unleash. 

Brendan made a few comments about the café helping Devin get valuable preparation for dealing with difficult people in a future career. Devin looked at him skeptically over a forkful of pork. 

If it wasn't for difficult people I probably wouldn't even have a career, his dad continued cheerily. Who'd come to me for settlements if everyone got along fine? Brendan was a divorce attorney who'd amassed a solid reputation over the years for protecting his clients' wealth from 'difficult' ex-spouses who didn't cooperatively just walk away from palatial hillside mansions, pedigreed pets or beloved Italian sports cars without a fight. 

Yeah, but being difficult with their wives doesn't mean those guys are difficult with you, said Devin sulkily. 

"Not

Reviews for I Was a Teenage Ghost Hunter

[Katie Edgar · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Moody 16 year old barista Devin Mulwray is trying and failing to ignore all of the bizarre manifestations that are happening in her home town the chilling seaside town of Acarta. He is already being teased about his frequent zone outs and the last thing that this teenage needs if to be known as the guy who sees ghost around town. It doesn't help that his state of mind when his boss is a sarcastic slacker, his single dad is always working away from home and a local occult fan girl starts spreading the rumour that he is ghost boy on social media.

When some violent paranormal activity badly spooks the teens of the town involving an abandoned estate. Devin is then pushed into investigating by one of his eccentric friends Clive - a budding composer - and Rex the resident tech head who is excited by ghost hunting gadgets. Reluctantly he gets involved and Devin is further encourage when Emily one of the more empathetic girls at his school is impressed with his daring behaviour.

Together the friends set out to explore the creepy Rousten manor in the local town. Devin being the one and only person who can perceive the manifestations, he find himself going on a one against one battle with a powerful spirit who starts attacking the locals and infiltrates Devin's dreams .... or should we say nightmare. Devin has got to face his fear of confronting the spirit world and get to the bottom of the haunting before the evil spectre unleashed more havoc on his friend and family.

This is the second of Brian Henry's books that i have read and i enjoyed this as much as the first. His way of developing the characters is one of the best i have seen and it is this which draws me into the story. The style of writing helps to show the dynamics of the group of friends and how they interact with each other and solve the puzzles which they are face with. Devin the main character is on the cusp of coming of age and he finds that his focus is taken away from the important things and forced to focus on the supernatural world. If you like young adult and paranormal stories then this is the book for you.