Wicked Game Read Online Free PDF Page A

the concrete. “The
Encyclopedia of Rock and Roll
?”
    “How are you supposed to read an encyclopedia?” Lori asks from the next lounge chair.
    “He said to skim.” I thumb the pages as fast as a flip book. “I’m skimming.”
    “Ow.” Lori sits up and rubs the back of her neck. “I think I’m getting burned.”
    “Slop on more of that SPF 40. You keep forgetting you’re Nordic.”
    “Finnish.”
    “But I’ve barely started.”
    She groans and squirts her squeeze bottle at me. I jerk a corner of my towel to protect the
Encyclopedia
from flying iced tea. “Hey, watch out.”
    “Puns make you a legally justifiable target.”
    I turn back to the book, but the sun’s glare against the white page tightens the corners of my eyes. I lower my face into the darkness of my crossed hands.
    To keep myself awake, I ask Lori, “How’s the ghost tracking?”
    “SPIT’s going to help raise funds for the Battle of Sherwood monument. The town officially thinks we’re nuts, but they’re happy to take our money. Besides, if we find out that Sherwood is haunted, it’ll bring in more tourists. Everybody wins.”
    “Except the ghosts. Maybe they’d rather be left alone.”
    She laughs. “Don’t patronize me, Skeptical Girl.” She says it like it’s the name of a supervillain.
    Despite the constant urge to roll my eyes, I support Lori’s obsession with Civil War ghosts—after all, she has to do something with that history degree. Besides, it’s kept my best friend in town two years after graduation, here with me and SPIT, the Sherwood Paranormal Investigation Team, who really need a new name.
    I remember my encounter in the parking lot last night. It feels silly in the bright afternoon light, but I have to ask. “Let’s say there really are ghosts in Sherwood.”
    “There really are ghosts in Sherwood.”
    “Okay. But what would one feel like?”
    Lori shades her eyes at me. “Is this a joke?”
    As I tell her about the cold presence, her mouth falls open like her jaw has lost all muscle tone.
    “I am so jealous.” She picks up her iced tea as if to fire it at me again. “You don’t even believe, and you get an apparitional experience. The most I’ve ever felt is a tingly elbow, and that turned out to be nerve damage.”
    “Come on. There must be an explanation. If you were investigating, what other causes would you rule out?”
    She taps the tip of her squeeze bottle against her chin. “With the trees around it, the parking lot might have natural temperature fluctuations, which would explain the cold spot. That whisper could have been the wind in the leaves. And everyone knows radio towers are massive electromagnetic sources. Sounds like a perfect recipe for false creepiness.”
    “Good.”
    “I could get SPIT to check it out for you.”
    “No no. I don’t want my boss
to think I’m crazy
.”
I don’t want
myself to
think I’m crazy
.
    Lori picks up her watch and whimpers. “Time for work.” She stands and folds her towel. It’s good she’s getting out of the sun—her face is the red of a marathoner who just crossed the finish line. “Stop by the bar later?”
    “Definitely. Thanks for the ghostly insights.”
    “You
will
belieeeeve.” She hums the
XFiles
theme music as she flip-flops away.
    I skim the mega-lopedia’s highlighted entries. No unusual facts yet, nothing that clues me in to the grand purpose of Wimp-FM.
    My beach bag bulges with unread volumes—two books on the history of radio, one on women in rock ’n’ roll, and a battered coffee-table book on American roots music.
    The last one has a lump, something stuck inside the front cover, something almost big enough to be a book of its own.
    I pull it out, a thick pamphlet. The back is yellowed and contains nothing but the copyright date of 1954. I flip it over.
    “Oh, that’s cute.”
    The title reads, in poorly typeset block letters,
The Truth about Vampires
. It looks like a public service brochure, part of a