Read Online Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) by Charity Tahmaseb - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Charity Tahmaseb
Tags: Fiction
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platform, the midnight blue like the night sky, sparkling with hundreds of tiny stars. It’s low budget stagecraft, to be sure, but it’s effective. I can feel people in the rows behind us leaning forward. The soft plinking of some new age tune fills the air. I turn toward Malcolm. He gives me a shrug.
Mistress Armand ascends the platform from the back, using stairs none of us can see. Her caftan flutters and glimmers a ghostly white. The image reminds me of a child’s idea of a ghost. It also reminds me of something I saw very recently, something I can’t explain, and something that tried to kill me. I lurch backward. My chair tips. The legs wobble, then Malcolm’s arm steadies me. As an encore, the chair legs thud against the wood floor. The jolt travels from the base of my spine to my jaw.
“You okay?” he whispers.
I place a hand against my neck. That thing—the entity that attacked me—is not here. Nothing is choking me. I can still breathe. I nod.
Perhaps it’s the light, but Mistress Armand is somehow lovelier than her own retouched image. Another murmur cascades through the crowd. Certainly Malcolm sits up straighter, as if she’s captured his full attention. His arm slips from the back of my chair.
I pretend not to notice.
“Welcome!” Mistress Armand calls out. “Welcome friends of all kinds, human and otherworldly. We are here today to dispel myths about our friends on the other side. We are here today to communicate with them, to learn from their knowledge. We are here to heal past hurts.”
I can’t tell if she means all of us or is speaking in the royal third person. I’m not sure it matters, since most everyone is here to speak to ghosts.
If only the ghosts could talk back.
I listen, trying not to judge or roll my eyes. I fail on both accounts. I squirm in my seat, the metal folding chair making my hips ache. A chill rolls through me despite the body heat warming the air. Up on stage, Mistress Armand wants us to confront our ghosts, which is something I do every day.
“They are merely a manifestation of our inner turmoil,” she says. “Rid yourself of that, and you rid yourself of ghosts completely. You will heal your body, soul, and spirit.”
I raise my hand.
For a second, Mistress Armand’s face contorts. “Let’s save questions for the end, shall we?”
“But I have one now,” I counter, and before she can cut me off, continue with, “Didn’t you say earlier, in fact, earlier today, that ghosts are real and that our policy of catch and release was cruel? How can they be both things? Real and merely a manifestation of our inner turmoil?”
“You simply don’t understand, my child. They are both. Don’t you see? Catch and release is like denial. You’re not facing your problems, simply pushing them aside. They return, stronger than ever.”
“But—”
“Who would like to be healed of their ghosts?” Mistress Armand’s caftan flutters with her movements. It billows as if to embrace us all.
Around me, hands shoot into the air until I’m surrounded by a forest of arms.
“You there, in the gray sweater and blue skirt. Yes, you.”
I crane my neck to see who she’s selected. To my horror, Sadie Lancaster makes her way down the aisle, hands clutched under her chin in excitement and pride at being picked.
“Ah, there you go, my dear.” Mistress Armand extends a hand and helps Sadie climb the stairs to the platform. “You are plagued by ghosts, then?”
Sadie nods. “Normally I call Katy or Malcolm, but the ghosts always come back.”
“Perhaps theirs is not the most effective business model.”
Muted laughter ripples through the audience. I’m leaning forward, ready to raise my hand or possibly storm the stage, when Malcolm grips my wrist.
“Not worth it, Katy,” he says under his breath.
“But—”
“Not. Worth. It.”
I sit back, defeated—for now. Mistress Armand leads Sadie to the chair and rests fingers with long red nails against
Mistress Armand ascends the platform from the back, using stairs none of us can see. Her caftan flutters and glimmers a ghostly white. The image reminds me of a child’s idea of a ghost. It also reminds me of something I saw very recently, something I can’t explain, and something that tried to kill me. I lurch backward. My chair tips. The legs wobble, then Malcolm’s arm steadies me. As an encore, the chair legs thud against the wood floor. The jolt travels from the base of my spine to my jaw.
“You okay?” he whispers.
I place a hand against my neck. That thing—the entity that attacked me—is not here. Nothing is choking me. I can still breathe. I nod.
Perhaps it’s the light, but Mistress Armand is somehow lovelier than her own retouched image. Another murmur cascades through the crowd. Certainly Malcolm sits up straighter, as if she’s captured his full attention. His arm slips from the back of my chair.
I pretend not to notice.
“Welcome!” Mistress Armand calls out. “Welcome friends of all kinds, human and otherworldly. We are here today to dispel myths about our friends on the other side. We are here today to communicate with them, to learn from their knowledge. We are here to heal past hurts.”
I can’t tell if she means all of us or is speaking in the royal third person. I’m not sure it matters, since most everyone is here to speak to ghosts.
If only the ghosts could talk back.
I listen, trying not to judge or roll my eyes. I fail on both accounts. I squirm in my seat, the metal folding chair making my hips ache. A chill rolls through me despite the body heat warming the air. Up on stage, Mistress Armand wants us to confront our ghosts, which is something I do every day.
“They are merely a manifestation of our inner turmoil,” she says. “Rid yourself of that, and you rid yourself of ghosts completely. You will heal your body, soul, and spirit.”
I raise my hand.
For a second, Mistress Armand’s face contorts. “Let’s save questions for the end, shall we?”
“But I have one now,” I counter, and before she can cut me off, continue with, “Didn’t you say earlier, in fact, earlier today, that ghosts are real and that our policy of catch and release was cruel? How can they be both things? Real and merely a manifestation of our inner turmoil?”
“You simply don’t understand, my child. They are both. Don’t you see? Catch and release is like denial. You’re not facing your problems, simply pushing them aside. They return, stronger than ever.”
“But—”
“Who would like to be healed of their ghosts?” Mistress Armand’s caftan flutters with her movements. It billows as if to embrace us all.
Around me, hands shoot into the air until I’m surrounded by a forest of arms.
“You there, in the gray sweater and blue skirt. Yes, you.”
I crane my neck to see who she’s selected. To my horror, Sadie Lancaster makes her way down the aisle, hands clutched under her chin in excitement and pride at being picked.
“Ah, there you go, my dear.” Mistress Armand extends a hand and helps Sadie climb the stairs to the platform. “You are plagued by ghosts, then?”
Sadie nods. “Normally I call Katy or Malcolm, but the ghosts always come back.”
“Perhaps theirs is not the most effective business model.”
Muted laughter ripples through the audience. I’m leaning forward, ready to raise my hand or possibly storm the stage, when Malcolm grips my wrist.
“Not worth it, Katy,” he says under his breath.
“But—”
“Not. Worth. It.”
I sit back, defeated—for now. Mistress Armand leads Sadie to the chair and rests fingers with long red nails against
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