Ria and the Revenant: Ria Miller and the Monsters, #0.5

By Nigel Henry

This is a 40-page prequel to Ria's Web of Lies. It does not have to be read in order.

A vengeful spirit. A haunted house. A defenseless child. Something about this case is not as it seems.

My name is Ria Miller, and I'm from a family of monster hunters. Where other kids my age are worried about crushes and teachers, my parents and I fight trolls, werewolves, and other things that would like to crush their teachers. 

We take the cases the police wouldn't believe, and we're the ones who keep you alive when the things that go bump in the night get hungry. 

Take our current case: a man who is being haunted by his wife's very dead, very pissed-off spirit. So my dad and I have to get rid of the revenant before it decides "till death do us part" is optional. 

Sounds easy, right? But there's just one catch: the couple has a seven-year-old son, and the ghost is just dying to be reunited with him. And if we don't stop it soon, we'll all be dying, too. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nigel Henry
• Release date: Aug 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386457343

Book preview

One

I hate Staten Island. Everything about it stinks, from the fact that you have to drive across the forgotten part of Brooklyn to get there to the stupid, long, ugly bridge to the stupid ferry that doesn’t even try running twenty-four hours a day. Nothing good ever happens when I have to go there, so obviously I’m not thrilled to be in this car right now.

My dad’s over in the driver seat and he’s giving me his usual stony-faced, pursed lips look. He always gets this way whenever we’re about to work a job. Normally he’s all sunshine and rainbows, but the moment we get near some revenants he launches into his Focus Dad mode and gets all like: Okay Ria; remember why we’re here. Stay focused.

He hasn’t said anything yet. I consider telling him I don’t want to go to Kennedy next fall; I figure he might not freak out over me wanting to transfer to another high school since we’re about to get into some real trouble. Is it sad that I’m trying to guilt him into going to a different school? Don’t most seventeen-year-old girls try to guilt their parents into cars and stuff?

Anyway, before I can say anything he just purses his lips even harder, so I just sigh and go back to watching the raindrops as they batter the windshield.

We finally cross the Verrazano and get onto the Staten Island Expressway. I can’t see much of the night sky through the thick rain, but I don’t really care to. Staten Island’s out there, and Staten Island sucks.

We’re almost here, Dad says as he pulls toward an exit. Remember why we’re here; stay focused, Ria.

I hold back a smirk and nod. Like clockwork. I know, Dad. We find the revenant that’s haunting this poor guy’s house, torch the sucker and we’re home before Fallon.

I check my watch: 9:00 p.m. We should totally make it home for Fallon.

Don’t expect it to be easy.

I never do.

He doesn’t say anything else in response, he just takes a deep breath and purses his lips some more. That’s my dad; when he gets in one of his moods he can purse his lips harder than anyone else on the planet. My mom always teases him that he looks like a young Barack Obama dealing with congress for the first time. They do kind of look alike, with the same big ears and brown lips from smoking. He always says he stopped smoking when he and my mom got pregnant with me, but that’s crap; I saw him sneak a few packs after my brother Patrick died.

That’s not right; after my brother, Patrick was torn apart by a werewolf. That’s what put us on this road and made us some weird Cosby Show version of the Winchesters.

The rain starts to taper off as we pull into a neighborhood with the kind of big homes that you don’t see in East Flatbush; the kind with front lawns and backyards. It looks all Wisteria lane-ish, except with the usual layer of New York grime.

Dad starts scanning the addresses on homes, but I think I know which one we’re looking for; there’s a creepy-looking dude standing out in front of a house in the middle of the block. He’s got an umbrella, but I can see his face as the car’s lights hit him. He’s a pudgy little white man, with a pot belly that pokes out from between his yellowing wife-beater and blue jeans, and a balding head of hair that really only exists near his ears. He’s got a mean face, with a long, hooked nose and bags under his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping. But then again, we wouldn’t be here if he had.

Dad brings the Honda to a stop in front of the man’s house: a drab, two-story building with white shingles and dark trim around the windows. I can’t tell if it’s red or brown. I don’t really care. There’s a single light on in the house, just behind the front door. A little boy is standing there, watching us from the other side of the white screen door. I hide a shudder. This is a scene out of the beginning of one of those horror films where everyone gets hacked apart. Thankfully, this isn’t my first movie.

I hop out of the