Headhunters

CHAPTER 1

A BOY AND HIS BALLOON

Edgar Tooms stared at his grandfather’s severed head and smiled.

The old man had fallen asleep by Edgar’s bedside while narrating his favorite yarn: How the Great Firefighter, Charles Tooms, Died. It was a story told and retold over the past few years with wide-eyed theatrics and ever-evolving heroics, but never with an ending.

The cause of death—despite the title—remained a mystery thanks to his grandfather’s amnesia and uncontrollable habit of passing out moments before the story’s climax.

Tonight was no different, and from the sound of the snoring, there’d be no second attempt to finish the tale, denying eleven-year-old Edgar the answer to how the elder Tooms ended up as a housebound, decapitated ghost.

It was a mystery that nagged at Charles, but delighted Edgar. The cause of death didn’t really matter to him; all he knew was that his grandfather’s floating head, visible only to him, was special. Edgar adored Charles’s thin, gray wind-swept hair, heavy-lidded eyes, ruddy cheeks, and aquiline nose.

Edgar’s mother, Margaret, didn’t share the same warm feelings for the father who had abandoned her when she was eleven. Edgar quickly learned that Charles Tooms was a name best left unsaid. Of course, he couldn’t help it as a toddler. Edgar chuckled as he thought back to his earliest memory, the day he spoke his first words—Opa Cha.

His mother’s face had turned green as those three syllables slipped out of his mouth. Cha was what Margaret called Charles when she was a child.

How do you know that name? she had screamed.

Edgar scrunched up his face. Years later, he could still hear the question ringing in his head; even his grandad’s snoring couldn’t drown out the din rattling within his skull. He shook away the noises, real and recalled, and lay down in bed. His mind always swam toward the past.

He thought of how his mother’s questioning increased in frequency and intensity over the years, and how, on his sixth birthday, her approach changed, softened. That day, after all of the party guests had left, she asked him in a calm voice, Peanut, who do you talk to when no one is around? Be honest.

The last time he admitted who he was talking to, he was shaken violently and sent to bed. He remembers stalling, but with her hand cupped warmly on his shoulder, Edgar felt like he could be honest with his mother again.

Grandpa! Grandpa Charles, Edgar answered and gave her a full description of the old man’s facial features, the sound of his gravelly voice, and personal quirks like how he sucked at his teeth when bored.

Oh, and the skin around his eyes crinkles like aluminum foil when he smiles—like this— Edgar had added, grinning and squeezing his green eyes shut. Oh, and Mom, he has the same part in his hair as me. And his earlobes droop like honey hanging from a spoon!

As he rattled off more details, his mother’s skin turned white. This was the moment he realized that his ability to see Opa Chuck wasn’t normal. He promised himself that day that he’d hide his ghostly interactions from his mom, other adults, and kids. Especially kids. The mean ones saddled Edgar with the nickname Tombstone Tooms.

The moniker followed him through grade school and was whispered in hushed tones as he walked through the hallways or was hollered during lunch as Edgar ate alone in the far corner of the cafeteria. The school’s administrators insisted that Edgar switch to home schooling, but Margaret put her foot down and demanded her son attend classes despite the bullying.

My husband died in Iraq, I’ve got a shitty nine-to-five that barely pays the bills, and, what, you want me to homeschool, Edgar? Pay for a tutor? With what money? No. He’s going to school. Understand me? He remembers her yelling into the phone at whoever at Springhurst Elementary had to deal with angry parents. He too had pleaded with his mother to stay at home, but her will won out and he went back to the cinder block house of taunting.

Edgar covered his face with his lemon-yellow sheets in a vain effort to block the memory of those elementary school days. But the scenes of humiliation and anger taunted him.

A high-pitched wheeze snapped Edgar’s attention back to the present. He watched as his grandfather bobbed up and down with every sonorous breath and wondered, How the heck does he breathe without lungs?

Edgar shrugged off the question, crawled to the foot of the bed, and picked up his grandfather. Charles only looked solid; he could pass through most objects instantly.

To make contact, Edgar’s outstretched hands had to trace the phantom contours of Charles’s head like a fortune teller reading a crystal ball until an electric charge buzzed between the two. Then came the sudden presence of mass, as if a bowling ball had dropped into Edgar’s palms.

The first time it happened, Edgar laughed and then vomited. His grandfather’s wrinkled skin, lips, teeth, and thin, gray hair all had the unexpected—and unsettling—texture of a rubber balloon. And Charles’s noggin wasn’t so different from a balloon: they both floated through the air, could be squeezed out of shape, and deflated.

But with each successive Catch, as Edgar liked to call it, the revulsion passed. Now, the weight and feel of his grandfather’s head, especially when cradled in the crook of his arm, felt comforting and empowering. Edgar thought of himself as a low-key superhero. The thoughts distracted Edgar and his grandfather’s head started to lose its solidity.

Did I finish the story this time? Charles asked, startled by the transition.

Not this time, Opa, Edgar said, regaining his grip and placing Charles on a dresser top. In the process, he accidentally knocked over a drinking glass. It shattered on the floor and Charles rolled his eyes. He knew what was coming next.

Edgar! Why aren’t you asleep? his mother yelled, thundering up the stairs to his attic bedroom.

The door swung open and she glared at Edgar, eyeing the shattered glass on the floor and the top of the dresser where it once stood.

How many times have I told you to be more careful? Clean this up and get to bed. Summer camp starts tomorrow! she snapped.

I know, Mom. I’ll be more careful. He watched his mother stomp back down the stairs.

She gets that anger from me, you know, Charles said. Margaret was always . . . temperamental.

Feels like Mom’s always angry, Opa. I wouldn’t know what to do if you weren’t here. Edgar sniffed and pressed his knees to his chest. Will I always be able to see you?

Charles stared at the tears forming in his grandson’s eyes. I hope so. I really hope so.

Edgar nodded, turned over, and wrapped himself in a wad of blankets.

CHAPTER 2

OPA'S SECRET

Charles Tooms gazed at his sleeping grandson. What he never told Edgar—and would never tell him—was that just before Edgar was born, he had spent weeks in the house invisible to the world.

Not even his daughter could see him. He’d scream and bounce harmlessly against the walls all day long. The nights brought new terrors to his solitary life: strange, high-pitched trilling voices, muffled explosions in the distance, and an erotic moaning oozing from the murk between life and death. He almost went mad.

It wasn’t until Edgar came along that another human being became aware of him. It was a relief, and he quickly put the terror of that time behind him. But thoughts of that time were always close to the surface of his mind and they breached his consciousness like slick eels whenever Edgar went to school or fell asleep. In those moments, he felt alone again and fearful that he’d disappear completely.

His grandson stirred and sloughed off the sheets. Charles smiled and let the thoughts fade away. He bobbed back toward the dresser and closed his eyes for the night.

CHAPTER 3

DREAM OF THE UNDERWORLD

Edgar dreamed of sitting in a cavern.

Wherever he turned, glossy stalagmites bristled from the ground like crooked witch fingers. A turquoise glow, cast by bioluminescent mushrooms carpeting the dirt floor, shimmered against the rocky formations.

Beautiful, Edgar said, shivering. Plumes of white vapor curled out from his mouth. His nostrils flared. The crisp air smelled of musk and mold.

The sound of metal squeaking turned his attention upward. High above, a gigantic water faucet hovered in the tar-black gloom, rolling and pitching.

Edgar imagined the Statue of Liberty would have such a spigot in her backyard—if giant statues had backyards. The faucet squeaked again. Its bulbous, red knob spun to the left. Then, the brass spout aligned directly over his head.

Water collected around the threaded, brass rim and fell straight down as impossibly small droplets, reminding Edgar of cartoon ants marching down a picnic table’s leg. The dollops drummed on his forehead.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

He tried looking away, but the frigid water paralyzed every muscle in his body. Someone called his name and Edgar woke with a start.

CHAPTER 4

WAKE UP CALL

Edgar rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

The cave was a fading memory, but the tapping persisted. Edgar turned his head. The sound echoed from the attic window not as the steady drumbeat he felt in the dream, but more like the slow, random popping of corn kernels in a cast-iron pot.

Maybe hail? he thought, stumbling out of bed. He marched toward the noise clinking against the glass, half expecting to see the backyard covered in icy pellets. But there was nothing.

The early morning sun dusted the dew-covered grass with a wan amber sheen. The bushes, still draped in shadow at the far end of the backyard, rustled. Edgar opened the window and inched his head out.

Twak! A pebble smacked his forehead. Crows in the surrounding trees cawed like a laughing TV audience.

Ha! Ten points! came a voice from the yard.

It was Clara Diaz, Edgar’s best friend and the only person who believed that he could see his grandfather’s ghost. He rubbed the welt growing between his eyes. Clara doubled over and laughed.

It’s 5:30 in the morning, Clara. Edgar groaned.

Come on, Tooms. Let’s hang out before you go to camp! Clara said, dropping a large sketchpad.

Keep it down. You’re going to wake up my mom, Edgar hissed.

Clara pulled back her thick, garnet-red hair into a ponytail. I saw a dead deer on the street over. She reached into the side pockets of her cargo pants and clacked its contents against each other like desiccated bones. I brought my colored pencils.

Edgar smiled. He could never resist watching her create magic on a blank page and she knew it.

I’ll be right down! he said.

That Clara? Charles mumbled.

Yup, I’m going out for a bit, Edgar said, tiptoeing down the stairs.

Be back before breakfast, kiddo.

The stairs creaked in response.

CHAPTER 5

MARKED FOR COLLECTION

Charles floated toward the window. He watched as the children greeted each other with hugs and laughter. He hoped that their friendship would blossom into something more as they grew older.

Despite the charming scene outside, Charles’s mood soured. Today, Edgar would leave for summer camp for a month—the longest stretch of time they’d been apart.

A thump downstairs turned Charles’s attention away from the window. He floated down through the floorboards and popped into his daughter’s room. Margaret turned over and buried her face into the pillow. She was asleep and Edgar was outside. Nothing in the house should be making noise, he thought.

The thumping grew louder. Something was wrong. Charles swooped down through another floor and slowly emerged from the kitchen ceiling. Now, a scratching sound came from the living room.

A raccoon. The boy left the door open again and let a raccoon in the house, Charles thought, speeding toward the noise, but found nothing out of the ordinary in the spacious TV room.

The plaster wall behind the couch suddenly cracked. Charles floated closer and watched as the outline of a circle etched itself into the wall. An unseen hand carved out the interior and chiseled a downturned triangle on each side of the circle, close to its base.

Charles turned as Edgar walked into the room.

Opa, have you seen my Polaroid camera? We’re going to take shots of this dead deer Clara found. She says we can get a great shot with the early morning light. Something about chiaroscuro.

Come here, Edgar, Charles said, nodding toward the wall.

Opa, why are you staring at the wall?

Come look. Can you see this . . . thing here? he asked, as inch-long lines emerged from each of the triangle’s down-facing tips.

Edgar nodded and ran a finger across the design and snapped his hand back.

What’s wrong? Charles asked.

It’s not there, Edgar said, tapping the carving. It looks like it’s dug into the wall, but the surface is flat. That doesn’t make sense. Edgar sat on his haunches. Look, there’s plaster dust on the floor.

The boy was right. The carving was somehow real and not real at the same time. Suddenly, a blue light emanated from the design, flared brightly, and faded from view. The wall turned smooth again and all the dust coating the wood floor disappeared.

Edgar stood and blinked. Why are we staring at the wall?

Charles glared at his grandson.

Why are you looking at me like that? Edgar asked.

Well, we just saw the wall carve shapes into itself. It was like there was an invisible artist⁠—

Oh! Clara! Clara’s waiting for me, Edgar said, walking away. He turned. When I get back, can you help me finish packing? I have to leave before lunch.

But the wall . . . Charles muttered.

What about it? Edgar said.

Charles tried holding onto the image of the etching, but it quickly evaporated. Um, never mind. Yeah, when you get back, I’ll help you pack.

CHAPTER 6

OFF TO CAMP

Charles hovered over the mounds of clothing Edgar had tossed on the living room floor. A fluffy pillow, half a dozen books, towels, a large water bottle, granola bars, and a pouch full of toiletries ringed the two weeks’ worth of clothing Edgar laid out on the living room floor.

Edgar dropped his hiking boots and sneakers on the carpet. "How the heck are we going to get all of this into that?" He gestured toward the empty, pea-soup-green, seabag draped over the couch.

Charles grinned. Grab the bag and step into it.

Edgar narrowed his eyes. Are you serious?

Hop to it, soldier, Charles said.

Edgar stepped in and pulled the canvas up to his eyes. Wow, it’s bigger than it looks.

Yup, now roll the fabric down until you reach your knees.

Edgar rolled down the edges of the canvas bag. There, now what?

First thing’s first—step out and set your hiking boots and shoes on their sides on the bottom. See how it flattens the bottom out?

Edgar nodded. Mm-hmm.

That’s your base. You’re going to want to put all the bulky items that you don’t need right away above that.

Edgar beamed and stuffed his pillow, books, and towels into the bag.

There you go! You got it! Charles said.

Thanks, Opa. I think⁠—

A drawer slammed shut. Edgar and Charles looked through the kitchen pass-through. Edgar’s mother waved a peanut butter–coated knife in the air.

If you weren’t out with Clara this morning, we’d be ready to go. It’s almost noon and we were supposed to be on the road by now. Margaret glared at her son. "Please remind me, why am I making this PB&J, Edgar?"

Sorry, Mom. I’ll wrap this up.

Margaret grunted and stabbed the knife into the jelly jar.

Edgar’s face twisted into a scowl. He grabbed a wad of shirts and pounded them into the seabag with his fists.

Whoa, take it easy, Charles said.

You know I don’t really want to go, right? Mom’s making me, Edgar said, wiping a tear from his cheek.

I know. Margaret’s a tough nut. She means well. I mean, I would have done the same thing to her.

Really?

Yeah . . . I was hard on her back then. It was a different time. Charles turned away to watch his daughter make sandwiches for the car ride. He noticed the anger roiling behind her calm exterior and shook his head. I should’ve been better, he muttered.

Edgar nodded and placed the last of his clothing into the bag. The water bottle, snacks, and toiletries followed.

Good. Now, shake the bag so all your stuff settles and cinch the top closed and you’re done! Charles said.

Edgar wrestled with the bag for a moment and managed to secure it. He let it drop on its