Oh Bubba, Where Art Thou? (Bubba the Monster Hunter Book 26) Read online

  But finally we were rigged up to Skeeter’s satisfaction, and I sent Billy home to his trailer and his dog. I settled into the studio with a cot and a sleeping bag and set up the iPad on a drum throne next to my beer cooler. I drank about six beers watching Daredevil on the tablet and laid down to sleep about eleven-thirty, thinking I’d get a good night’s sleep and review all the footage in the morning with Skeeter.

  Of course, I only slept for about three hours before Hank Williams walked into the studio and woke me up. That’s Hank Senior, not Bocephus or Hank III. The one that died in 1953. Yeah, that one.

  4

  I sat bolt upright, which was a lot less like snapping up to a sitting position like The Undertaker at Wrestlemania, and a lot more like a fat dude trying to sit up, flipping a cot over so he lands on the floor ass over teakettle with a cot on his head, then cussing a lot before finally giving up, throwing the cot across the room to knock over a cymbal with a gigantic crash, flinging the blanket to one side and sitting with his back up against a wall staring at the glowing form of a no-shit legend of country music.

  “Damn, son, I ain’t heard a racket like that since the time I got drunk with Ernest Tubb and Jimmy Short backstage at the Opry and Short fell all up in the drum kit. Knocked it to Hell and gone.”

  “Sorry, Hank, you surprised me a little bit. I wasn’t expecting to recognize any of the ghosts I ran into tonight. I just figured they’d be old dead pickers and such.”

  “You trying to say I ain’t a picker, boy?” Hank bowed up a little at me, and I had a moment of fanboy in my head. Hank Williams wants to whoop my ass before I settled that down.

  “I ain’t saying that at all, Hank. I’m just saying I expected nameless session guys or something like that. I didn’t expect an honest-to-God legend.”

  The ghost appeared satisfied by that. I was glad. I didn’t want to whoop Hank Williams’ dead ass in a haunted music studio, but I figured if push came to shove, I was gonna be okay. It wasn’t like he could actually lay hands on me, and even if he could, Hank was a skinny fella.

  “Well, all right, boy. I reckon that’s fine, then. But I ain’t just a ghost. You oughta know that I am the bona fide Ghost of Music Past, here to show you how things used to be and how they can be again.”

  “Huh?” I looked at him, trying to figure out exactly what the hell he was talking about. I mean, I’d heard about ghosts going batshit crazy when they died, on account of not wanting to be dead and all, but this wasn’t some kind of pissed off revenant shit, this was just weird.

  “What do you mean, ‘huh?’” The spirit asked, and for the first time I realize that I could kinda see through him. This was all uncharted territory for me. Like I told Billy before I sent him home for the night, I’m the guy people call in for monsters that need a can of whoop-ass opened up all over them. I’m not the “flights of angels sing thee to thy rest” kinda guy.

  “I mean what the hell are you talking about? Ghost of Music Past? Is this some kind of redneck Christmas Carol or something?”

  “Wait, ain’t she done been here? Goddammit, they told me this woman would be late for her own damn funeral, but I figured she was already dead, what else would she be doing? She can’t be late for this, right? Nope, wrong again!” He took off his hat, looked up at the ceiling and hollered, “BONNIE! Get your ass down here and tell this dumb hillbilly what’s going on so I can get on with this shit!”

  A redheaded woman with a kind smile and crystal green eyes walked through the wall of the studio and glared at Hank. “I’m coming, Hank. Jesus, keep your pants on! I got stuff to do, man, don’t you understand that?”

  “You are dead, woman. You ain’t got shit to do except listen to music and play with them damn ghost dogs.”

  “Hey! My ghost weenie dogs are very important. Ain’t that right, boo-boo?” She bent down and picked up a glowing dachshund from the floor. The little dog wriggled in her arms and licked her face. I reckon ghost dogs can lick ghost faces.

  Hank cleared his throat, something that surprised me a little. I wouldn’t expect ghosts to get phlegmy, but I reckon it was more for emphasis than anything else. “We’re waiting.”

  The ghost woman shot Hank a look and pursed her lips. “Alright, keep your pants on.” She set the dog down and turned to me. “I reckon you’re Bubba?”

  “I reckon,” I said. “And you are?”

  “I am the Spirit of Music,” she said, holding her arms out in a grand gesture. Unfortunately for her, grand gestures are less grand when they’re made by dead women wearing capri pants and a Mast General Store sweatshirt.

  “And I am Bubba the Monster Hunter,” I said. “Pleased to meet you. I’d get up and shake your hand, but I don’t think you can shake hands anymore.”

  “Yeah, we can skip that part,” she said. She spread her arms wide and took on a tremulous, wavering voice. “You will be visited by three ghosts this night to show you the power of music and the consequences of the events about to unfold here in this very studio.”

  “What kind of events?” I asked.

  She scowled at me. “Look man, I just learned the words to this part last night, so how about you let me get through it before you start asking me stupid questions?”

  “Why don’t you just tell me what you want me to shoot without all the bullshit?”

  “It’s a whole ritual, man. I’ve got to tell you about all the ghosts, then the ghosts come and show you a bunch of stuff, and then you come back and have some sort of…what’s the word?”

  “Epiphany?” I suggested.

  “Yeah, epiphany. You come back here, you have an epiphany, and then you go off on your own to save the day, motivated and transformed by all the important visions you’ve seen.”

  I cocked my head to Hank. “That all sounds good, but why don’t we just stay here and drink?”

  “Did you just quote Merle Haggard to Hank Williams?” the Spirit of Music asked.

  “I did,” I confirmed.

  “I’ll give you credit, son, that’s pretty good,” Hank said with a grin.

  “Thanks.”

  This time it was the Spirit of Music who cleared her throat. I looked at her. “Are ghosts allergic or something?”

  “What?” she asked.

  “You and Hank both been hocking up loogies ever since you got here.”

  “I was clearing my throat to get your attention.”

  “Yeah, I’ve never understood that. Why not just say something like ‘Hey Bubba, pay attention’?”

  “It’s just a thing, man. Don’t overanalyze it. But now that I’ve got your attention, can we get on with it? We’ve got to get all this crap done tonight, and time’s a-wastin’.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Three ghosts. Got it. One of them is Hank Williams, the Ghost of Music Past. I reckon one of them will be the Ghost of Music Present and then the scary one, the Ghost of Music Yet to Come.”

  “Pretty much. I reckon you’ve read the book?” she asked.

  “Nah, saw the cartoon and Scrooged. I like that movie.”

  “I do, too,” the Spirit agreed.

  “I ain’t seen it,” Hank chimed in.

  “You pipe down,” the Spirit said to him. “You were early, and it screwed up my whole karma, man. So you just sit there and be quiet.”

  “Whatever, Bonnie,” Hank said.

  “Bonnie?” I asked.

  “That was my name in life. But now I am the Spirit of Music, and I have been tasked with protecting the soul of music against all threats.” She did that whole wavy arms and spooky voice thing again. I wasn’t real impressed.

  “We can skip the theatrics. What’s the threat this time? I do a lot better with something to punch or shoot.”

  “I can’t tell you. You have to learn it on your journeys with the Ghosts.”

  “Then what are you here for?”

  “I’m here to tell you that there’s a threat to the existence of music, and you have been chosen as the Champion of the Boogie.”
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  “Champion of the Boogie?” I asked.

  “I just made that up. You like it?”

  “It ain’t the worst thing I’ve been called this week.”

  “Damn, son. It ain’t but Monday.”

  “I’ve got a talent for pissing people off.”

  “I reckon. Anyhow, you will be visited by three Spirits this night, and they will show you different aspects of music and its impact on people’s lives.”

  “How about I just say I’ll fight whatever you want me to fight, and then I go back to sleep. Then tomorrow I’ll get up in the morning, beat the shit out of whatever you want beat up, and we can all go home?”

  “How about you just shut your mouth and listen to me while I tell you how this shit is gonna go. You are about to get on my last nerve, now.” I’d never seen a pissed-off ghost before, but then, I didn’t have a whole lot of experience with ghosts. That reminded me of something, and I started to reach into my pocket.

  “You put a hand on that damn pocket watch and I will get all poltergeist on your behind,” she said before my knuckles even brushed Aunt Marion’s watch. “Everything you heard about it is true. It will control ghosts, but this shit it way too important for you to be messing with that. Now please, just sit there for another minute and listen to me.”

  I looked up, and she was looking at me with pleading eyes. Whatever she had to do meant a lot to her, so I decided to at least give her the benefit of the doubt. “Okay,” I said. “Go on.”

  “Now when you have been visited by all three Spirits, you will be returned to this place, and tomorrow your battle will begin.”

  That much was nice at least. Usually I don’t get any advance warning when I’m gonna have to shoot stuff or blow something up. “Okay, I got it.”

  “You sure?”

  “What else is there? There’s a bunch of ghosts, I’m gonna see some shit, then tomorrow I have to whoop somebody’s ass. Just like most Tuesdays. Well, the ass-kicking. Not so much the ghosts. This is kinda new to me.”

  “Yeah, me too.” She looked around and found Hank’s ghost sitting on a stool in the corner of the studio trying to pick up a guitar. “Hank, you ready?”

  “Just about,” the ghost said, looking distracted. He stroked the neck of the guitar with fingers that passed right through it. “The only thing that sucks about Heaven is all the damn harp music. All those musicians and not a guitar anywhere.”

  I shuddered. “You sure you ain’t in Hell, Hank?”

  He smiled at me. “Some days I wonder, boy. Some days I really wonder. But I get to see what my boy is doing, and my grandkids. That girl Holly is making some fine music nowadays.”

  “Yeah, she is. I love that song of hers ‘Waiting on June’,” I said.

  “Me too. That girl can write some music.”

  “Well, she might have a little genetic advantage.”

  “Thank you, son. I appreciate that. But I reckon if we don’t get on with this show, Miss Bonnie over there is gonna whoop my spectral ass.”

  “You ain’t wrong, Hank. Legend or not, you’re here to do a job, and I’m here to see you get it done,” the Spirit said.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Hank tipped his hat to her, then turned to me.

  “All right, son. Let’s start this all over. I am the Ghost of Music Past, and I’m here to show you how it used to be. Are you ready to ride?”

  I looked up at the ethereal form of the once and forever King of Country Music, and I said, “Yes, sir. This might be the most surreal damn thing that’s ever happened to me, and I’ve wrestled Bigfoot, hunted a chimichanga in Florida, and gambled with a leprechaun. But you lead, and I’ll follow.” Hank Williams waved his arm, and a glowing circle appeared in the air in front of us. He stepped through, and I followed, feeling like a weird cross between Highway to Heaven and a David Allan Coe song.

  5

  We stepped out of that glowing circle of light, and I squinted against the sunlight glaring off age-bleached asphalt. I stood in the middle of a parking lot in front of a pale blue metal prefab building with “Bullock Creek Fire Department” on the side in white letters. Three white metal roll-up doors stood open, the doors looking like missing teeth in a baby-blue Muppet mouth.

  The parking lot was full of pickups and firetrucks, and people milled around inside and out. Everybody greeted each other with hugs and handshakes, and a lot of “thank you for comings” bounced around. I smelled something delicious, so I followed my most delicate of senses around to the side of the building where three old men stood gathered around a huge cast iron three-legged pot, stirring it with what looked like a broken oar.

  “What is that smell?” I asked. “It smells like Heaven, only spicier.”

  “Turkey stew,” Hank said. “And no, you can’t have any.”

  “Why not?” It smelled really good.

  “We aren’t really here, jackass. Besides, looks like it wouldn’t hurt you to miss a meal.” He pointed to my belly, which rumbled at the attention.

  “Kiss my ass. I’m big-boned.”

  “Yeah, you got a huge bone in your gut?”

  “Kiss my ass,” I repeated. I walked over to the men and leaned in between them. Well, I planned on leaning between them, but one stepped sideways right when I tried it, so I ended up leaning right though him. I stood up quick, and the man shivered, rubbing his arms and looking around at something he couldn’t see. Something that was probably me.

  “Damn, Hank, that was weird.”

  “Yeah, you probably don’t want to do that too often. You ain’t a real ghost, so I don’t know what will happen if you get stuck inside somebody.”

  “That can happen?”

  “Yeah, man. Don’t you watch movies? I love horror movies. They didn’t have many good ones when I died.”

  “I don’t watch many horror movies. It’s kinda like watching training videos for me, I fall right asleep. Unless they get something right, then I get in touch with the director and threaten to whoop his ass for letting the secrets out.”

  “They ever care?”

  “Not yet. That Whedon fella, though, he’s alright. He promised to make all his shit funny so people won’t believe it. But man, ever since he came up with that thing about vampires turning to dust, I been really wishing it was true. It would make cleanup so much easier.”

  “That’s not what happens?” Hank asked. I just stared at him. “Hey, I don’t know, man. I ain’t never seen a vampire. I didn’t even believe in ghosts until all of a sudden I was one.”

  I thought for a second, then nodded. “That makes sense, I reckon. No, vampires don’t turn to dust. They don’t really turn to anything. They just leak blood all over the place and make a damn mess. Did you know you can’t get blood out of hardwood floors? It gets down in the cracks and just messes everything up.”

  “I did know that, as a matter of fact, but we ain’t here to talk about me.”

  I looked at Hank Williams’ ghost for a long second, then decided not to push him on it. However he learned that you can’t get blood out of hardwoods was a long time ago, probably in a honky tonk that hasn’t existed for fifty years, and besides, I didn’t want him to get pissed off and leave me in Bullock Creek, wherever the hell that is.

  “Okay, Hank,” I said. “Why are we here? I don’t hear no music, so what’s this got to do with music past?”

  “Be patient, son. Just be patient.”

  Hank waved his hand, and the images before me sped up, like he put the whole shindig on fast forward. People came out with styrofoam bowls on trays, and men filled them up with the savory stew. More trays, more stew. All along, people kept tossing more stuff into the big stewpot, keeping a never-ending stream of what I figured out was turkey stew going all morning. I saw dozens of people go into the fire station through the side door, be gone about long enough to eat lunch, and then come back out grinning. As the day progressed, a van pulled up at the opposite end of the building and half a dozen men started to unload sound equipme
nt and instruments.

  I walked inside, where a flurry of activity took place. Folding tables were broken down or moved aside to clear out the center of the building, and cakes and pies were laid out in a big spread by a small kitchen. Concessions were set up by the kitchen window, and a white-haired woman with sparkling blue eyes and smile took a little metal money box and sat by the door. The second she sat down, time slowed back down to its normal pace, and I noticed that the bay doors were closed, and through the door at the end of the building, I saw black sky and stars. Neat trick, that whole speeding up time thing. I coulda used that in statistics class back at UGA.

  A strawberry blonde woman that looked kinda familiar walked into the building, and the woman gave her a big hug. A shortish man followed her, his mullet resplendent in blond curls. He wore jeans and a plaid western-style dress shirt, and the woman was in jeans and a green blouse. He turned to shake the hand of a trim man with a beard and long hair by the door, and I saw “BUBBA” on the back of his tooled leather belt. I was very much among my people.

  A little brown-haired girl hid behind her mama’s legs until she saw the older woman, then she ran out to hug her and took a seat right next to her, obviously overseeing the proper use of the cash box.

  “How y’all doing?” the older woman asked.

  “We’re fine. Tired, but fine. She’s getting bigger,” the redheaded woman said. “Four pounds now. The doctors said maybe another month and she can come home if she gains enough weight.”

  “That’s what they told me yesterday. She’s going to be fine.”

  I turned to Hank. “Preemie?”

  “You ain’t as dumb as you look, Bubba.”

  “Nobody’s as dumb as I look, Hank.”

  He laughed at that. “You obviously didn’t spend any time in honky tonks in the fifties, son. There was some old boys there that made you look like a rocket scientist. But anyway, yeah, the white-haired woman, her name’s Frances. The other woman is her daughter. She just had a little girl about six weeks ago. She was real premature, and they didn’t know if she was gonna make it.”