The Ghost in the Aisle Seat: A YA Christmas Story Read online

The Ghost In The Aisle Seat:

  A Very Scary Christmas Story

  By Rusty Fischer, author of A Town Called Snowflake

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  The Ghost in the Aisle Seat

  Rusty Fischer

  Copyright 2013 by Rusty Fischer

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  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Cover credit: © Dmitrijs Dmitrijevs – Fotolia

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  The Ghost In The Aisle Seat:

  A Very Scary Christmas Story

  “I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to this.”

  Chester smirks his slimy smirk and flashes his digital camera right in my eyes. “Don’t worry,” he oozes as I stand there, blinking in the dark behind the candy counter.

  “And don’t flash that out here,” I hiss, yanking him just out of range of the lobby’s see-through double doors. “The place is supposed to be closed up tight. I could get fired just for being here, to say nothing of letting you in here.”

  “Me?” He rolls his eyes, grabbing a fist full of popcorn from the giant trash bag by the stock room door. “What about the dude sitting in Theater 6 right now? Hmm, Haley? Did you forget about him?”

  “No, I didn’t forget about him. Did you forget about the fifty bucks you said you’d give me if I let you listen in?”

  He flinches like maybe, yeah, he did. Figures. I should have known better than to trust this white boy to bring me my money.

  “No,” he lies, reaching in his back pocket. He yanks out a Velcro wallet (of course) and slides out a twenty dollar bill.

  “Hey,” I protest when he hands it over.

  “You’ll get the rest when I get my story,” he says around a mouthful of neon yellow popcorn.

  I groan and join him in a midnight snack, pouring us sodas and tearing open a bag of licorice whips to share. Chester downs them noisily, like he does everything. He’s wearing skinny jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt under an ironic hipster old-fashioned Christmas sweater that I immediately want to use to strangle him until his face is the color of Rudolph’s nose.

  He slurps his soda and says, “So what’s this clown’s story, anyway?”

  “He’s not some clown, Chester. He… he used to be my teacher, back in fourth grade. He was a sweet guy, then. Loud and funny and always giving us treats in the afternoon if we forgot them for snack time, and right before Christmas break he gave me a Judy Blume book. I still have it—”

  “Yeah, yeah, sounds like a prince,” Chester interrupts, fiddling with a sleek little digital voice recorder between licorice whips and fists full of buttery yellow popcorn. “Skip to the headline, will you?”

  I roll my eyes but he’s kind of got a point, because the sooner I tell my story, the sooner he sneaks into Theater 6, gets what he wants and gives me the rest of my money. Christmas presents don’t just up and buy themselves, you know?

  “Well, that same Christmas break, the one where he gave me the book? He and his wife came here, to Snowflake Cinemas, to watch a movie on Christmas Eve.”

  “Lame.”

  “Shut up, Chester! I think it’s romantic.”

  “Romantic? What kind of guy takes his wife to the movies on Christmas Eve?”

  “A sweet guy who wanted to give his wife a break from cooking Christmas dinner for her in-laws, is my guess. But that’s beside the point. The point is, I guess they drove separate cars to the movies and she left first. On the way home, she got in an accident and…”

  I don’t have to finish the rest. He nods, silent for the first time all night, staring at a spot just above my head. I clear my throat, go on: “So, every year since, he comes here on Christmas Eve. Sits in the same theater they sat on that night, in the same row, the same seat, and watches whatever’s on the movie screen, all night long. Until we close, then usually we kick him out.”

  “But not this year?” he asks suspiciously.

  I shrug. “This year I’m assistant manager, and told Mr. Fletcher he could stay in Theater 6 until I’m done cleaning up.”

  “Nice…” he grins, polishing off his soda and the last licorice whip. Then he frowns a little, futzing with a pair of fancy goggles from his backpack. “Does he remember you?”

  I put my hand on my hip. “Really, Chester? How many black girls do you think there were in a place called Snowflake Elementary School?”

  He smiles. We both know this town’s as white as its name. “Guess you’re right. So… he’s in there now? And you’re sure he won’t see me?”

  I nod and reach in the stock room door for a spare usher’s uniform. “Oh, he might see you, but if you’re wearing this… I can always say you’re working with me.”

  “Slick,” he says, taking off his backward ball cap and sliding off his shirt.

  “Dude,” I say, turning around. “No one wants to see that…”

  And it’s true. Not that Chester’s not cute. He is, but… there’s just something about him. Like tonight. Here I am, telling a sweet story about my old teacher, Mr. Fletcher, but Chester’s not here for that. He writes this column, “Haunted Happenings,” for the school paper. That’s what he’s here for. That’s all he’s here for.

  You wouldn’t think a school paper would have a need for something like that, a column about haunted places, but seeing as Snowflake, South Carolina is the sixth most haunted city in the state, well… Chester does all right.

  But he’s so skeevy about it. Always going around to these haunted houses and proving they’re just creaky old boards or fishing wire or sheets or some such mess. That’s kind of his schtick, actually: embarrassing folks around town who claim to live in haunted places, and then writing about it for our school paper. (Lucky us!)

  I wouldn’t have even let him near this place if payday wasn’t until after Christmas. And my sister really, really wants that iPod Nano and there’s no way I’m getting it for her this year without Chester’s blood money.

  “Okay,” he says, chuckling, and I should know better than to trust him but no, there I go, turning around when he says it’s safe and it’s most definitely not!

  “You better wash those, Mister,” I say, covering my eyes with one hand and slapping his shoulder – please, let it be his shoulder – with the other. “Going around not wearing any drawers, and on Christmas Eve, of all nights!”

  Finally Chester pulls up his black polyester usher pants and buttons them tight, cinching the equally cheesy cummerbund around his flat stomach.

  He slips the digital camera around his shoulder, slides the voice recorder in the pocket of his crisp white shirt and slips the goggles on over his neck.

  “What are those?” I ask.

  “Spectral Specs,” he brags, smiling so wide I can see a stray piece of popcorn stuck between his straight white teeth. “You’re supposed to be able to see ghosts with them.”

  “Supposed to?” I ask doubtfully, grabbing a broom from the rack behind him.

  He shrugs, following me out from behind the candy counter and right, toward the long row of theaters. “Well, I’ve never actually seen a ghost before, so… I don’t know if they work. But they were expensive, so they must work, right?”

  I can’t tell if he’s asking me asking me, or just asking me rhetorically, but either way I don’t answer him. “Here,” I whisper, putting a hand to my lips. “In here.”

  We go inside the tiny projection booth, where tonight’s movie, Santa and His Vampire Elves 4, is playing at mock volume.

  “Can we turn it down?” he whines
.

  “Not without him noticing,” I snort. “Besides, this isn’t a pleasure cruise. Just… do what you’re gonna do and get out of here before he—”

  “It’s too bright in here,” he says, slipping into the goggles and looking around. He looks like something out of a science fiction movie. Santa and His Ghost Hunters 3 or something.

  “Well, I’m sorry, but…”

  “Isn’t there a back entrance?” His voice is whiny as he pulls his goggles from over his eyes, blinking and rubbing them with his long, white boy fingers. “The movie is messing with my glasses.”

  I sigh and lead him out of the booth. “Honest, Chester, if you screw this night up for Mr. Fletcher.”

  We’re outside the booth, so close we could kiss if we wanted. “Screw what up?” he sneers, and I don’t know which is uglier at that moment: his voice or his face. “A guy sobbing into his popcorn over some Ghostbusters fantasy of his?”

  He goes to walk off and I snatch him back. Hard. “You don’t really believe in them, do you?” He yanks his arm away but my grip is strong. Hey, I’m not captain of the girls’ volleyball team for nothing.

  “Believe in