A GIRL, A GUY & A GHOST
Sherrie Rose

"So, are you going to invite Brad to your mom’s annual Halloween party?"

Cradling the Cricket phone against her ear, Traci Nettleton considered her best friend’s question as she flopped onto her back on the bed and stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars pasted to her ceiling. They were pretty sweet when the lights were out.

Almost as sweet as Brad Davidson.

"Trace?" Christine Abernathy prompted when she didn’t answer. "Are you? Don’t tell me you’re going to chicken out!"

"It’s not that. It’s Mom. You know how weird she can get–especially on Halloween. I don’t want her to embarrass me in front of Brad." She loved her mom, she really did, but she wished she’d act more like other moms instead of one of her teenage friends. Most of her friends, including Christine, envied Traci for having a cool mom. Traci didn’t think they’d feel that way if her mom were actually their mom.

"I think your mom’s cool."

Traci suppressed a groan. Christine was so predictable! "Yeah, well, I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat."

"Would not."

"Would too!"

"Would not! You’d have to give up your cell phone, your Internet, and share the bathroom with my two little brothers. And don’t change the subject. You’re going to invite Brad, and that’s that."

"Bossy."

"Chicken."

"Grow up!" Before Christine could retaliate, the bell announcing Traci’s instant messages dinged from her computer speakers. "Hang on, I’ve got a message. I’m gonna check it out." She muttered a silent prayer that it was from Brad. He’d emailed her twice, and both times he’d hinted that he was interested in getting together with her. She was hoping he’d come right out and ask her. Her friends were pushing her to ask him, but Traci preferred to let Brad do the asking.

She rolled from the bed and walked to her computer, peering at the screen. Holding her breath, she clicked on READ MESSAGES. A message popped up on the screen. It read, "GREETINGS, BOBCAT!"

She nearly dropped the phone. "Oh . . . my . . . God, Christine!"

"What? What is it?" Christine’s voice sounded shrill with frustration. "I hate it when you do that to me! Who’s it from? What does it say?"

Voice shaking, Traci read out loud to Christine. "Greetings, Bobcat."

"Bobcat?" Christine echoed. "What the heck does that mean?"

Traci’s heart was pounding so hard she could see it fluttering against the oversized T-shirt she wore as a night gown. Her mouth had gone dry, too, and she wondered if this was what it felt like before a person fainted or had a heart attack. "Christine, if you sent this, it’s not funny!"

"Did you forget? I’m grounded from the Net for two weeks because I forgot to pick up my bratty brother from softball practice. Besides, I don’t know what you’re talking about, and if you don’t tell me I’m going to start screaming in your ear!"

"He – the only person who’s ever called me that is dead!"

Christine didn’t speak for a moment. Finally, she said, "You’re talking about Corky? That cute little boy who lived down the street from you? Your first boyfriend?"

Traci swallowed hard and nodded, then realized Christine couldn’t see her. "Him," she croaked. "Corky Evans. He–was my best friend before he became my boyfriend."

"Traci, you never told me that he called you boobcat–"

"Bobcat," Traci corrected faintly.

"Whatever. You and I didn’t become friends until after he–he drowned, didn’t he?"

"Yes." Traci felt hot tears spring to her eyes. There wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t think about him. They had been inseparable. In fact, they had spent the night with each other on weekends until they were eleven, when his mother caught them playing doctor and nurse and decided it was time to keep a better eye on them.

Swiping at her eyes, Traci said, "He called me bobcat because he said I had pointed little ears like a bobcat."

"Man, Traci, you’re weirding me out. Are you sure about the message?"

"I’m staring at it now. It – it even says it’s from the Undertaker. That – that was the nickname he used online. The Undertaker was his favorite wrestler."

"I’m sure a lot of people use that name," Christine pointed out.

"Maybe." Traci bit her lip. The tears continued to fall. "But I don’t think this is a coincidence. The message says ‘Greetings, Bobcat’ and it’s from the Undertaker. If it’s a coincidence, it needs to be on Ripley’s Believe it or Not."

"I hear you. Oooh, girlfriend, you’re making my skin crawl."

"How do you think I feel?" Traci asked, unable to take her eyes from the screen. "I’m standing here staring at it."

"Send a reply."

"What?"

"Send a reply! Ask him who he is. That’s the only way you’re going to find out, because we know that message didn’t come from a dead person, right? Call me back if you get a reply."

"No!" Traci shouted. "Don’t go! Stay on the phone. I’m scared." This time she wasn’t ashamed to be chicken. She suspected that Christine was scared, too.

"All right, but hurry. Mom lets me talk on the phone until ten, remember? After that she pulls the plug. Stupid brats. You’re so lucky you’re an only child . . ."

Traci tuned Christine out as she sat in her computer chair and typed a brief message and clicked the SEND button. She could hear her heart beating as she waited, and the drone of Christine’s voice in her ear as her friend launched into a tirade about her pesky little brothers and how miserable they were making her life. Traci wasn’t rude enough to tell her friend that she’d heard it all before, but she was thinking it.

The message went into cyberspace. Traci closed her eyes, trying to imagine the message humming along the cable cord to another server, then another and another until it popped up God know’s where.

She kept her eyes closed until the bell dinged, scaring her so badly she nearly wet her pants. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing!

"Whoever he is, he’s quick," Christine said, apparently hearing the announcing bell. "Hurry and read it. I’m dying here. Ooops. Sorry. No pun intended."

The words tried to run together as Traci stared hard at the message screen. No way. No friggin’ way. It was impossible! She took a deep breath and read out loud, "It says, "I’m the boy you could never outrun. You’re the girl with a birthmark on her butt."

"How the heck would he know that?" Christine asked in a squeaky, fearful voice.

"He – he tried to paint me nude once. His dad walked in on us. We got an hour-long lecture I don’t think I’ll ever forget."

"How old were you guys?"

Traci felt her lips tugging at the memory. "Eight, I think. The painting turned out lousy, but we had fun."

"Sounds like it." She paused a heartbeat. "Traci? What’s going on? We both know this has to be a hoax. Maybe his brother or sister–"

"No siblings."

"What about his mother–"

"She would never, ever do that to me." Traci was absolutely positive about that. In fact, last time Traci visited Mrs. Evans, the poor woman told her that she had yet to touch anything in Corky’s room.

"Man, this is too weird," Christine said.

Cradling the phone against her ear again, Traci typed in another message, asking his name. It had to be a hoax – she knew that – but she couldn’t resist finding out just how cruel the cruel person on the other end could be. This time the sound of Christine’s voice gave her comfort as she waited for a reply.

The bell dinged about a moment later, giving Traci the impression he or she had been waiting for her to ask the question.

"Winston Evans," she whispered, her eyes going wide.

"What? What did you say, Trace?"

She cleared her throat and said it louder. "Winston Evans."

"Well, there you have it. Must be a cousin or something. Whoever he is, tell him from me that he’s a creep."

"No." She quickly typed in another message and sent it. "Christine, Corky’s real name was Winston. Not very many people knew that. He hated it."

"Well," Christine said dryly, "Obviously someone else knew. Oh, come on! Surely you’re not falling for this hoax?"

Traci ignored her, her burning eyes on the screen. She had just asked him to tell her something nobody else could possibly know. If the person knew Corky at all, then he would know that she and Corky had plenty of secrets, secrets that she was positive Corky took to his grave.

In a shadowy corner of Corky’s basement where they had operated on "deceased" animals, they’d made a blood pact. They’d made that pact the day Mrs. Ryder’s cat got run over by the garbage truck. She and Corky had tried to put the poor thing back together, although they both believed the cat to be dead. In the middle of the operation, the cat’s eyes had popped open. He’d let out a horrible screeching noise before racing out the basement window, trailing a sewing needle and thread behind him.

Nobody had ever seen the cat again.

Another message popped up. Traci clicked on it, feeling as if she’d stumbled into a bad dream. There in bold capital letters – something else that was exclusively Corky – was the message, "Do you still have the ring you stole from Bishop’s drug store when you were twelve? And do you still keep it in that little wooden jewelry box I made for you on your thirteenth birthday?"

Traci gasped and covered her mouth. Corky and Corky alone had known about the guilt she’d suffered, how close she had came to taking it back and confessing to Al Bishop. But fear and embarrassment had stopped her. She’d ended up keeping the ring as a reminder that she wasn’t cut out to be a shoplifter.

Corky had sworn a solemn oath that he would never tell a soul.

"Traci, what’s going on? Why are you so quiet?"

"I’m – I think I’m going to puke or faint or something," she said.

"I think you’re supposed to put your head between your knees," Christine said.

If she did that, Traci was certain she’d fall right on her head. "Give me a minute," she whispered. She read the message over and over, and in the end, it still said the same thing. On trembling legs, she got up and walked to her vanity table and opened the ugly wooden jewelry box Corky had made with his own two hands.

There it was, as she had known it would be.

The cheap ring she had stolen from Bishop’s drug store. Even if Corky had told someone about her stealing the ring, they couldn’t have known where she kept it, because not even Corky had known.