Duck Duck Ghost

By
R
HYS
F
ORD

Clockwork Tangerine

Grand Adventures (Dreamspinner Anthology)

C
OLE
M
C
G
INNIS
M
YSTERIES

Dirty Kiss

Dirty Secret

Dirty Laundry

Dirty Deeds

H
ELLSINGER
S
ERIES

Fish and Ghosts

Duck Duck Ghost

S
INNERS
S
ERIES

Sinner’s Gin

Whiskey and Wry

The Devil’s Brew

Tequila Mockingbird

Published by
D
REAMSPINNER
P
RESS

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Published by

D
REAMSPINNER
P
RESS

5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886  USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Duck Duck Ghost

© 2014 Rhys Ford.

Cover Art

© 2014
Reece Notley.

[email protected]

Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

ISBN: 978-1-63216-218-2

Digital ISBN: 978-1-63216-219-9

Library of Congress Control Number:
2014944012

First Edition September 2014

Printed in the United States of America

This paper meets the requirements of

ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

This book is dedicated to the most wonderful Amy Lane, fabulous Poppy Dennison, and the effervescent Jacob Flores.

And to Yoshiko who spends the night hunting my toes because she’s certain they are deadly ghosts coming to get her from under the bed linens.

TO THE FIVE who are my beloved sisters of writing: Penn, Lea, Tamm, and Jenn. And to my darling siblings in love and coffee: Lisa, Ren and Ree.

So many thanks and wow, love outpourings to Elizabeth North and the rest of the Dreamspinner Press staff who make me stand up, pull up my socks and brush my hair so I look decent in public. A special shout out and heartfelt hugs to Grace and everyone she throws into my editing pool, because each and every one of them rocks so hardcore you can feel the bass in your teeth.

A rocking thank you covered in chocolate and caramel to my beta readers and the Dirty Ford Guinea Pigs. Oh, only the Gods in Heaven, Hell, and Starbucks Temples everywhere know how much you all endure my word spew and jerking you around with my plotting. Love you all. So damned much.

T
HE
SMELL
of rot permeated the air.

It was a foul smell. A blackness to it Wolf would never get used to. With the proximity of the Florida swamp and Atlantic, there was a faint hint of stagnancy as well, with an overlay of brackish algae just for good measure. He couldn’t imagine living in its stink every day. Like cigarette smoke, it would flavor everything he touched, breathed, or ate.

He’d expected some dampness, especially in the lower jut of an ill-advised half basement below the church turned hostel, but when his sneaker sloshed through an actual puddle in the kitchen, Wolf wondered if the owners had less of a ghost problem and were more in need of a home demolition.

The basement seemed to be where most of the noises were coming from. At least from what Wolf could figure out. Creaky, eerie sounds wafted through the sprawling hostel, carried through the antique ductwork set into heavily built walls, and they certainly appeared to be originating from underneath the first floor. Tapping at the plaster, Wolf frowned, wondering what the builders had been thinking when they’d put in so many tight hallways and corners. The maze made it difficult to find the source of the hostel’s supposed haunting, but it apparently helped keep the place cool when it got too hot.

“It’s like they got paid by the fucking corner,” he grumbled. “Every single damned old house has a million stupid little corners.”

An undulating groan drifted through the hostel, and a screeching wail followed close on its heels. A startled yelp nearly broke Wolf’s eardrum, and he stopped for a moment with his foot on the second step down to the basement.

“Jesus, you trying to get me killed?” Wolf muttered, flipping the light switch at the top of the stairs one more time. “I could have fallen down this death trap and broken my neck.”

Much like the other five times he’d clicked it, the light stayed off, and he glanced up, fumbling in his pocket for his flashlight. After finding it, Wolf turned the torch on and splashed the beam up along the ceiling, not surprised to find a pair of dangling capped-off wires where a light fixture should have been.

A woman’s voice tickled Wolf’s ear as he crept down along a tight spiral staircase. “I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to be doing here, Dr. Kincaid.”

Wolf sighed and leaned his head against the cramped interior stairwell. Cupping his mouth over the wireless headset he wore to keep in contact with his intern, he counted to three, then said, “You’re supposed to keep up with me.”

“I’m trying to, Dr. Kincaid.” The young woman sounded exasperated. “But your legs are too long. I can’t keep up. I lost you back in the hallway. The lights aren’t working in this end of the house. Everything went black.”

“Where are you, Trixie?” he growled into his mic. “And more importantly, how soon can you get to the basement stairs?”

“Shit, you’re going to go down
there
? Why? Can’t we just use something to see underneath the house? Like they do for dinosaurs. What is that? Sonar? Can’t we use that?”

Biting back a sarcastic reply, Wolf reminded himself that soon-to-be-Doctor Trixie Huff was his only staff on the hostel job, so snarling at her probably wouldn’t necessarily endear him to her.

Initially, he’d agreed to use the headsets because he wanted to keep his communication to a whisper so as not to telegraph where they were in the building’s labyrinth of cellar space and servants’ quarters. Now Wolf was partially glad he had it on because he kept losing his damned intern.

It wasn’t Trixie’s fault.

Wolf was just too used to working with his team, and the intern, while highly intelligent and sharp, hadn’t planned on spending her summer vacation hunting ghosts in tourist-infested St. Augustine, Florida. Instead of lounging about the pool—or beach—being brought drinks by hot cabana boys in tight, skimpy shorts, she was tromping behind a grumpy parapsychologist in cobweb-cluttered mazes while rats and spiders dropped down on her like turtle shells in a game of Mario Kart.