Radiance (Riley Bloom #1)(23)
And I couldn’t help but hope those had been the clothes they’d been buried in, because if they’d chosen that ensemble on their own, well, I wasn’t sure I could ever get through to them.
“Why aren’t you afraid of us?” the one I was beginning to think of as strawberry head asked.
I shrugged, taking a moment to look him over before I said, “Well, if it makes you feel any better, at first I clearly was. I mean, you saw the way I almost took off. And then with that whole killer clown thing with the drills and the picks—” I shuddered at the memory of it. “Well, you nearly did me in! But when you started with all the scary monster stuff, well, let’s just say it was pretty much a dead giveaway.” I smiled, adding, “Pun intended,” really cracking myself up. But when they didn’t join in, I was quick to add, “Anyway, that’s pretty much what did it. I mean, most of those movies were way before my time, and that’s pretty much the moment I knew.”
“Knew what?” He pressed his lips together, looking me over in that creepy way that only a ten-year-old can.
“Knew that you were counting on the fact that I’d be too scared to realize I’m in control—that I’m the one who allows the fear to win. And that my refusal to feed it, to let it take over, would diminish its power over me—your power over me.” I nodded, and, even though I tried not to, I couldn’t help it, a triumphant smile crept across my face. Which only seemed to annoy him even more. “Not to mention the fact that I’m already just as dead as you, so there’s really not much else you could do to hurt me, now is there?” I added.
“Oh, we could do plenty! We could—” The blond one on the left piped up, rushing forward and shaking his small fist in the air, until strawberry head turned and flashed his palm, sending him slinking right back to his place again.
“We’re not leaving if that’s what you’re here for. Plenty of others have tried, you know. And trust me, I mean plenty. But we’re still here. Have been for hundreds of years. So, maybe you’re the one who should move on, because we’ve no plans to stop. And if you continue to insist, well, it’ll just end up being a big fat waste of your time.”
“Maybe.” I shrugged, my fingers picking at a loose thread on one of the blue cushions, acting as though I was only mildly invested in this, as though I had nothing important riding on it. “But then again, maybe not.” I raised my gaze until it met his. “I mean, did it ever occur to you that maybe you guys are the ones wasting your time? Seriously, think about it. Hundreds of years spent running around in outdated little short sets just so you could get your jollies by scaring the beejeemums out of ghost-seeking tourists.” I shook my head. “Hundreds of years of the same lame routine.” I sighed, making a point to look at each of them. Just the thought of it seemed exhausting and pointless. “And for what may I ask? What could possibly be the point of all that? And just what exactly do you get out of it, anyway? I mean, really? Don’t you ever feel like taking a little vay-kay, or even a week-long break?”
“We do take breaks! We work in shifts I’ll have you know!” shouted the other blondie.
But shifts or no shifts, they weren’t getting it, weren’t getting it at all. I’d spent twelve full years bugging my older sister to the point of, well, complete and total ridiculousness. But still, that was nothing compared to the colossal waste of the last few centuries they’d committed to. Talk about a time suck.
“My point is—” I clutched the cushion to my chest for a moment before tossing it aside. Making sure I had their full attention before I went on to add, “What’s the payoff? Seriously. Why bother with the flaming red eyes, gaping black holes, and—and all of this?” I motioned toward them, drawing an invisible line from the top of their curly heads all the way down to their immaculately shined shoes.
And that’s when the other one finally spoke, standing just to the right of strawberry head when he said, “What’s the payoff?” His bright blue eyes met mine, looking at his friends as they snickered and laughed amongst themselves. “Fame. That’s what. Worldwide fame is the payoff.” They shook their heads and rolled their eyes, smirking at me as though I was a grade-A moron.
I squinted, unsure I’d heard right. I mean, there was no way they could be serious about that.
“We’re famous,” he repeated, his voice as determined as the expression on his face. “We have name recognition. People come from all over the world just to try to get a glimpse of us—a chance to photograph us—to catch a voice recording of us—to have an encounter with us—to tell their friends back home they lasted through the night with us—” He glanced at his buddies as they all burst out laughing, his eyes back on mine when he said, “Which, by the way, is a big fat lie since no one’s ever made it through the entire night in this room. No one. No exceptions.” His face grew stern. “And, let’s not forget about all the books, and articles, and TV shows about us. We’re famous. International superstars! And we have been for years. We’re like—we’re like the Backstreet Boys in a way—only dead.”
Oh boy. Suddenly, I couldn’t help but feel bad for them for not only being completely delusional, but tragically outdated as well. I mean, the Backstreet Boys—could they have picked a more ancient reference? I shook my head and looked them over. They reminded me so much of some of the kids I used to go to school with, whose sole ambition was to be famous. For what? They hadn’t a clue. All they knew is they were destined for the spotlight.