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"There's more," Jess said as letters continued to develop. He took off his glasses, steamed them up with his breath, and cleaned them off on his yellow shirt.
"The middle one's 'or,'" Sam said. " 'Or' what?" he asked Casper. "And why'd you try to kill my Nintendo?"
" 'Harts,'" Dave said, reading the top line as it filled in. "What the hell's 'harts'?"
Jess put on his glasses and wrinkled his nose. "Dude, I think he means 'hearts.'"
Sam crossed his arms. "Illiterate spook." The last few letters fell into place and the message was clear: "Harts," it said, "or war."
Sam shook his head. "Whatever, man. Cards are for losers. We're playing video games." He used his shirt to clean the TV screen, then stepped back and waited for Casper's outburst, waited for the lightbulb to shatter and the bu
"Aw, dude!" Jess exclaimed, plugging his nose and fanning the air.
"Jesus," Sam said, spraying some Febreze he found on the floor. "Sodomy Hussein did have weapons of ass-destruction."
Dave grimaced. "Sorry."
"Why don't you go dump that nuclear waste?" Sam asked.
"I don't know." Dave turned a little red. "Afraid we'll hear the splash?"
"No."
"Afraid of Casper?"
"No." He picked up the controller and riddled with the buttons. "I don't believe in that crap. I'm not a two-year-old."
"Yes, you are."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes,you are."
"Nuh-uh."
Sam smirked and crossed his arms. "Don't worry, kiddo. Casper stays out of the crapper."
" 'Cause that's where he died?" Dave asked. "No, 'cause that's where I shit. Of course it's because that's where he died. And if he does go in there, which will never happen in a million, billion, trillion years, just scream 'Beetlejuice' three times and he'll go away."
"How the hell does that work?" Dave asked. "Is that really some kind of ancient incarnation?"
"Aside from the fact that you're an illiterate douche," Sam said, "no. The landlord says Casper hates that movie, thinks you'll make him watch it."
"Not a big Michael Keaton fan," Jess added. "But he's okay with the original Batman because of Jack Nicholson. Now would you just go?"
"Okay, okay." Dave excused himself to the bathroom and farted as he walked.
"Dude!" Jess vacated the love seat, plugging his nose.
After the stink had cleared, Sam hooked up the Super Nintendo and turned on Street Fighter. "Care for a quickie?" he asked.
"Sure, big boy."
"Ken versus Ryu?"
"You know it.
"Classic."
"Just like the old days."
"Carpet stretcher."
"Twat."
"Your momma."
"Dave's momma."
"Hey!" Dave called from the bathroom. "For the last time, I'm not a fucking llama! I've just got a long neck!"
Sam and Jess chuckled and tapped their controllers together as if they were toasting beer mugs, something they had done since middle school, back when they had bowl cuts and liked to play Ninja Turtles. Jess was his only friend the ghost hadn't run off. Not that he'd had many friends.
They went to sit on the love seat—and Casper shoved it out from beneath them; they landed in dust bu
"Ouch," Sam said. "I think a Dairy Queen token's lodged in my ass."
"I—"Jess began. And then the love seat charged them.
Sam dodged.
Jess didn't.
The piece of furniture rammed into his shoulder. He fell over and the seat reared, its front leg poised over his head. It plunged—and Sam caught it, hands under the bottom as if he were lifting one side. "Move!" he yelled, muscles standing out on his neck, love seat bucking against him, dry-humping his leg. Jess rolled away.
Sam let go of the love seat and it crashed down. It tried to head butt him. He and Jess sidestepped it and went for the front door, but Casper blocked it with the dresser where Sam stored his DVDs. Sam and Jess retreated to the kitchen doorway, crunching Red Bull cans and tripping in dirty clothes.
Something hit the door behind them. They jumped. Metal points stuck through the door at head level. "Dude," Jess said, "is that...?"
"A salad fork," Sam replied.
A cleaver hit and poked out of the wood. Plates shattered against the door, knives stabbed it. It was hollow. It wouldn't last long.
Puffed up with air, the love seat feinted toward them; it scooted left, then scooted right.
"What the hell is its problem?" Jess asked, rubbing his shoulder. "Dave's fart?"
Sam ignored him. He shouted, "Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice!"
The love seat paused. The racket behind the kitchen door came to a halt, and somewhere a faucet dripped. After a few seconds, Sam's muscles began to relax. "Phew, I think it's—"
The love seat reared and stomped; the knives continued to hack through the door. They were almost through. "Shit," Jess said, "what do we do?" Red boxer shorts lay tangled in the laundry. Glancing at the love seat, Sam grabbed for them. The love seat feinted again and he shot upright, freeing the shorts.
"Dude," Jess said; he pointed at the Ninja Turtle on the boxers and raised an eyebrow.
"Shut up," Sam said. "I've got an idea." He nudged Jess aside with his elbow and held the shorts out in front of the kitchen door like a matador taunting a bull.
The love seat scuffed its front legs on the carpet. It snorted out a cloud of hair and dust.
"Toro," Sam said, staring it down, sweat on his brow. "Toro, you springy son of a bitch—your momma was an ottoman!"
That did it: the love seat charged.
Sam held his ground, held his ground—then leapt aside as the bull of wood and soiled upholstery smashed its head through the door. It lodged in the bottom panel, ripping itself on the jagged edges as it tried to pull out.
"The bathroom!" Sam shouted, grabbing Jess by the shirt. "Go, go, go!"
Sweaters and fla
"Dude!" Jess bent to feel for them, and—crunch— stepped right on them.
With the crack of wood and the tearing of upholstery, the love seat finally freed itself from the door. It whirled around, stuffing billowing out of it like fatty tissue. And behind it, through the hole it had made, knives wandered. Knives—and the bong made of the fishbowl and the eggbeaters.
"Oh my God," Sam said. "No ... no." Jess stood up, holding his broken glasses. Sam seized his wrist and screamed, "Run!"
In the narrow hall, Sam fumbled along the frame above the bathroom door. "Shit, shit, shit—where is it?"
The doorknob featured a hole through which you could pop open the lock. For a makeshift key, Sam usually used a straightened paper clip, hidden above the door. "It isn't here!" he said, groping. The fishbowl bong crept to the mouth of the hallway. "Beetlejuice!" Sam exclaimed, but the bong just rotated its beaters, making a chuckling sound. It turned to the knives. They looked at each other and nodded. "Dude," Jess said, clutching at him blindly. "Found it!" Sam jammed the paper clip into the hole and popped the lock.
The knives darted forward—and lodged in the wood as Sam slammed the door.
"Hey!" Dave pulled up his pants to cover his lap. He still sat on the toilet, holding a copy of JC Pe
Sam grabbed the catalogue from him. "We can't. Casper's gone Michael Myers on us.".
Dave raised an eyebrow. "That guy from Austin Powers?"