Extra-Crispy Apparition
[Part One, in Ghosts of Tapioca Falls, a miniseries of interconnected stories for October, 2018]
Detective Gregory Auburn sat alone, perusing the Tapioca Times, lost in thought. The smiley waitress (Veronica, according to her name tag, though the detective had seen her wear other name tags before) returned to his lonely booth with her coffee carafe and refilled his mug.
She eyed the crumb-filled saucer in front of him. “Officer, can I get you anything else to eat?”
“I told you ma’am, it’s Detective. If it’s easier for you, please just call me Greg. And yes, I’d love another bagel, extra cream cheese.”
“Coming right up, Off—I mean, Greg.” She giggled and blushed a little, before walking back towards the kitchen.
He watched her leave and returned to his newspaper: “MURDER BY GHOST? Local Psychic Tells Why Killing May Have More To Do with a Broken Heart Than a Broken Skull!”
Greg had read the article several times, and his blood boiled hotter with each reading. He was the main detective on Timmy Saunderson case. It perplexed him, the coroner, and everyone else down at the station. The boy was obviously murdered in his own home, but no evidence could be found at the crime scene. He couldn’t’ve busted open his own head with that baseball bat, yet nobody else could’ve either. Every possible suspect had an airtight alibi, and the kid was well-liked by everyone in town. The last thing Greg needed was Madam Metophany spreading superstitions and causing panic.
He looked towards the kitchen. “Where is my bagel?” He visited Downtown Diner (pronounced “downton” by the locals) every morning before going to the station, but the food never took this long to get to his table.
Greg glanced out the window at the cars driving by, the squirrels in the tree across the street, the—“WOAH!”—Greg leapt of the booth involuntarily, spilling his coffee in the process. There, just feet away from the glass window, apparently out of nowhere, stood Timmy Saunderson, looking directly at Greg’s eyes.
Timmy looked transparent like a hologram or a projection, but the way he stood and stared, Detective Auburn knew it couldn’t be fake, couldn’t be a prank. His heart beat faster than it ever had before. Greg opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
Timmy smiled. He raised his left hand and pointed. The detective’s gaze followed the invisible line issuing from the boy’s finger, and his eyes rested on the door in back of the diner to the kitchen.
He looked back out the window, but Timmy had vanished. Am I seeing things? Was that real? The few other customers in the diner were looking at Greg, but he barely noticed. His phone buzzed and Greg yelled. He picked up the cell and answered.
“Detective Auburn.”
“Greg, it’s Charlie. I know you’re not at the station yet, but we just received an emergency call from dispatch, figured you’d be closest. Are you still at Downtown Diner?”
“Yes Captain, what’s going on?”
“A waitress, Veronica May, says she’s trapped in the walk-in fridge. Says the cook is dead, and she’s been threatened. The line cut off before we could get any more details.”
Greg drew his pistol, ran to the kitchen, kicked the door open. He gasped at the sight: The cook he’d seen hundreds of times before now knelt at the fryer—head submerged in the bubbling oil.
Greg covered his mouth, and swallowed back the vomit and bile which threatened to escape. He sprinted frantically, looking for the fridge. Finding it in the back left corner of the room, the detective yanked the door open. Veronica was sobbing, curled up on the ground.
She screamed, “Watch out! He’ll get you!”
“Veronica, it’s okay. I can keep you safe.”
“Look out! He’ll get you!” She stood and backed into then fridge’s corner.
Greg peered over his shoulder, saw nobody, and looked directly at Veronica. “Do you know who did this?”
“It’s Travis Sutter. I seen his picture…the black-and-white one from the grand opening.”
“That was almost ninety years ago. Come with me. I’ll keep you safe. You need to get warm.”
He heard a click behind him, and Greg spun, finger on the trigger. Burnt bagels jumped out of the toaster, but nobody stood there.
“Those should’ve been out a long time ago…”
Greg approached the toaster. He examined the blackened bread for a minute, when—psssssssssss—he turned again and saw three burger patties sizzling on the flat-top grill.
“You weren’t there just now.”
A spatula levitated and hovered over the grill. The spatula waited for a few minutes, and Greg just started, transfixed. It flipped each of the burgers, and Greg decided to shoot.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The spatula dodged all three shots, flicked the three patties into a stack, and flung the burgers at the detective.
Greg ducked and sidestepped to the right. He snatched up a large, wooded cutting board and used it as a shield, as more food and kitchen utensils flew in his direction. Greg was backed up to the corner, and he couldn’t see what was happening.
When the things stopped flying and all the clattering stopped, Greg lowered his cutting board and dared to look ahead. A translucent man stood in front of the fryer, wearing nothing but a Downtown Diner apron, with a name tag attached to it: Travis Sutter.
All of the sudden, Greg remembered the legend. He hadn’t heard the story since he was a kid. Sutter was the original fry cook when the diner opened, but he supposedly died on the restaurant’s three year anniversary. It was a freak accident involving a slippery floor, a hot fryer, and a lot of burning oil.
The man—no, ghost—in front of Greg had cracked, flaky, burnt skin. And he held a large meat tenderizer. Sutter took one step towards Greg, and Greg shot the ghost. The bullet went straight through him, into the wall, and did no damage.
Sutter took three more steps and swung the tenderizer. Greg caught the blow with the cutting board.
“Don’t kill me!” Greg yelled.
“You don’t kill me!” Sutter returned.
Greg scowled. “You’re attacking me. I can’t kill y—”
“Don’t kill me!” The ghost swung the tenderizer several more times, and Greg continued to parry each blow, until Sutter used his other hand to yank the cutting board out of the detective’s grasp to the ground.
Sutter swung, and Greg leapt back against the wall, tenderizer missing his stomach by mere inches.
“What do you want from me?” Greg yelled.
“Justice.”
Detective Auburn covered his face with his hands, and awaited the attack.
Sutter screamed, and Greg opened his eyes. Timmy Saunderson stood in front of Greg, and held the end of the meat tenderizer, and played tug-o-war with the other ghost.
Timmy’s head spun 180 degrees. “Get out of here with the girl, Detective. I’ll take care of this one for you. I know how to send him back.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I just need you to do one thing for me in return.”
“What’s that, Timmy?”
Timmy let the tenderizer go, and Sutter stumbled backwards, tripped over the cook’s body, and fell butt-first into the fryer. Timmy’s hand broke off his ghostly form and flew to the fire alarm and pulled the lever. An alarm sounded and the sprinklers above showered the diner. Sutter screamed, looked stuck, but he wasn’t dead.
Timmy ran to the shake machine, and Greg sprinted to Veronica. She was unconscious, so he scooped her off the ground. Greg walked to the door, but turned to face Timmy one last time.
“What do you need me to do?”
Sutter screamed once more and kicked, arms flailing, like he was trying to climb out of the fryer but still stuck. But Timmy looked unconcerned. His eyes pierced Greg’s.
“Detective Auburn, I need you to solve my murder.”
[…TO BE CONTINUED]
