The Hollow and the Haunted

Oh, really? What are my skills, then? What, exactly, do you think I’m bringing to the table here?” Gabriel’s gaze skimmed over him dismissively. “Looming in an intimidating manner? Lifting heavy objects? Spotting things in the distance before anyone else?” “Are you trying to make fun of me for being tall? What is this, third grade?

I was worried they weren't going to let us in." Gabriel's gaze flitted down to Miles's faded band T-shirt. "Yes, perhaps I should have warned you to dress ... not in your usual style." Ouch. He smoothed down the front of his shirt defensively - it had been a gift from his dad after Miles found his collection of old records in the garage. "Don't diss Led Zeppelin, or you'll be hitchhiking home." "I have no problem with the band. It's your shirt that needs to be thrown out." "There's no way you're a fan of Led Zeppelin." "Of course, I am - they're one of the most influential bands of their time. I make a point to educate myself on the popular artists of all generations. And I find their originality very ... refreshing." Miles couldn't believe what he was hearing. He had to be in a confusing, backward reality where Gabriel Hawthorne had good taste in music.

Gabriel’s idea of fun would be something boring like walking around their massive property, scowling at squirrels and stomping on wildflowers.

Would you rather I start smoking behind the school? Steal a motorcycle and ride it around town late at night? Flip off old ladies?

Of course she’d say vampires. Every rich, reclusive white family living in a small Washington town was rumored to be the Cullens. It was a miracle the Hawthornes’ front door wasn’t being constantly beaten down by hordes of teen girls.

Miles yanked the door open in a billow of steam. “Something super weird just happened. I thought… I thought I saw someone else in the mirror.” A boy with dark hair and a pale face. Her eyebrows shot up. “A spirit?” What would one be doing in his bathroom? Unless he’d been visited by Casper the Pervy Ghost, there was no way.

He prodded at his tender throat, wincing. Oh, come on, he had school today. How was he supposed to explain suspicious neck bruises? And scarves always made him look like he was trying out for drama club or writing angsty poetry during his lunch.

He should be used to it at this point. But reminding himself that this was just how his life was didn’t make him any less bitter when he was knee-deep in a casket, inhaling musty dead person air and trying not to get strangled by the ghost of a sixty-year-old woman with a murderous passion for gaudy jewelry.

And Mrs. Mendoza was angry. She’d moved past the whole rattling dishes and slamming doors phase and straight into physical manifestation, a skill that required a lot of energy or a real rage high. And she’d decided that with great power, it was her great responsibility to strangle the life out of Miles.

Miles firmly reminded himself that zombies didn’t exist. Ghosts, sure. Zombies, however, had never been proven. He knew that for a fact—he’d done a very thorough amount of research. A big part of the family business involved spending late nights all alone in cemeteries.