Uncanny Magazine Issue 18 by Lynne M. Thomas

Author:Lynne M. Thomas [Uncanny Magazine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: science fiction, fantasy, weird, magazine
Publisher: Uncanny Magazine
Published: 2017-08-27T00:00:00+00:00

Delia Sherman is the author of numerous short stories and novels for both adults and younger readers, somewhere in the historical-fantastical-comical-romantic-feminist vein. She is or has been a teacher, an editor, a member of the Tiptree Motherboard, a co-founder of the Interstitial Arts Foundation, judge of literary awards, a book store clerk, a gardener, a knitter, a cook, a traveler, and a flaming liberal.

Ghost Town

by Malinda Lo

1. October 31, 11:57 p.m.

McKenzie shows up at the Spruce Street Guest House a few minutes before midnight, dressed all in black as if she’s some kind of ninja. She’s even got a black stocking cap pulled over her blond hair, which is sticking out from the bottom in a luminous sheet and ruining the disguise. She’s carrying a backpack, out of which she pulls a flashlight. “Ty?” she whispers.

She can’t see me. I’m leaning against the back of the house, and the light of the half-moon doesn’t reach that far into the covered porch. I step forward and she squeals in fright.

“Jesus! You scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry,” I say. “You sure you want to do this?”

She huffs a little, as if I’ve offended her. “Whatever, you just startled me. I’m prepared for what’s in there.” She clicks on the flashlight and sets it on the top step while she opens her backpack to rummage through it. “I brought an audio recorder and a video recorder, although it probably won’t pick up much in the dark.” She pulls out a slim metallic device and hits the power button. A tiny red light glows at the tip. “Audio’s on. I’m putting it in the outer pocket of my backpack so it’ll be recording the whole time.” She stuffs her video camera into her pocket and slings her backpack on again. “You ready?” she says, picking up the flashlight.

“I guess. I didn’t bring any equipment.”

McKenzie grins. “That’s what I’m here for. This is your first ghost hunt; how would you know?”

“Uh… TV?”

McKenzie laughs and climbs the porch steps. “Don’t believe everything you see on TV.” The back door is locked, but McKenzie pulls a key out of her pocket.

“Where’d you get that?” I ask.

“Kelsey’s mom’s on the Pinnacle Ghost Tour staff. Kelsey swiped it and made a copy.” She unlocks the door and pushes it open. The hinges whine, a thin, shrill noise as unpleasant as fingernails down a chalkboard. “You ready to see what Pinnacle’s all about?” McKenzie asks.

There’s a hint of a come-on in her voice, and despite everything, it gets to me. I wish I could see her face, but it’s too dark. “You bet,” I say, and I follow her inside.

Pinnacle, Colorado, bills itself as the Salem of the Rockies—except there have never been any witches here, and it’s not exactly in the mountains. But people love that slogan, even if it’s a marvel of false advertising. Pinnacle is a dinky little town on the flat part of Colorado (people always seem to forget about the flat part), an hour and a half from the Rockies and a light year from San Francisco, where I grew up.

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