by Stacey Kade
Everyone, including Killian, ignored me. Surprise, surprise.
“I know,” Killian said, but the words rang hollow. He didn’t believe it, and he didn’t expect them to, either.
“You should get some rest,” Dr. Miller said in that same patronizingly gentle voice. “A night at Ivythorne—”
“No,” Killian and his mother said simultaneously.
Miller frowned. “Julia, I strongly encourage you to—”
Killian’s mother hesitated for a long moment.
“Mom,” Killian whispered, and I could see the fear in his face. She was all that stood between him and a life in lockdown.
Then she straightened her shoulders and met Dr. Miller’s gaze straight on, and I saw the woman she must have been before all this tragedy rained down on her life. In that second, I envied Killian a little. My mother would have been fighting me for the opportunity to go to Ivythorne, probably hoping it would finally gain her some attention from my dad.
“I’m sure you would agree that this is an isolated incident triggered by Principal Brewster bullying my son,” Killian’s mom said. “He’s a full-grown man who should know better than to torture a troubled boy.”
Miller shook his head. “I know that you would like to believe …”
“Max, I said no.”
“Good for you. Finally, somebody in this family with a little spine,” I said.
“All right.” Miller held his hands up, surrendering less than graciously. “It’s your decision, of course. I brought something else to help, just in case.” He reached into his suit coat pocket to produce a capped syringe. “It’s a mild sedative,” Miller went on. “Just so you can get a good night’s sleep tonight.”
“And halfway into the next century,” I protested. “Tell him no. You promised to help me.”
Killian ignored me and looked to his mother. “I don’t need it.”
Her mouth curved in distaste when she looked at the syringe, but she nodded at him. “You need the rest.”
“A sedative on top of a head injury?” I said. Any first-year watcher of House could tell you that was a mistake. “You people are crazy.” Granted, his mother didn’t know about the bump to his head, but still …
Killian offered up his arm reluctantly.
I lunged to yank his arm down, but the bed was in the way, and Miller, after years of doping up patients, moved faster than I did. The needle was in Killian’s arm before I could reach him.
I straightened up. “You’re such a coward. I take back all the nice things I thought about your chest.”
“You’re right,” Killian said. Then he looked up at me with a frown. “What?”
“I said, I want you to get some sleep,” Miller repeated, a little louder. He removed the syringe from Killian’s arm, recapped it, and dropped it in his pocket.
Killian’s glazed eyes found mine. “What nice things did you think?” he asked, already sounding muzzy.
“Oh, forget it,” I snapped.
Miller backed away, clucking his tongue. He nodded at Killian’s mom, and the two of them stepped out into the hallway. I followed, narrowly escaping before Mrs. Killian closed the door.
“Now, Julia, I don’t want to alarm you, but with your family history …”
She flinched.
He took her by the shoulders, enfolding her in a much-closer-than-professional embrace.
“A skeevy chin-rubber. Even better.” I wrinkled my nose, imagining the dusty smell of his tweed jacket and the lingering odor of pipe smoke.
“It may be nothing at all, but any sudden change in behavior is something we should keep an eye on.” He hesitated dramatically, setting her away from him but still keeping his surprisingly fat and stubby fingers on her shoulders. “With this latest incident, we should consider hospitalization again—”
“He’s doing better,” she said firmly, as if she could make it true by the force of her words.
Oh, God, I couldn’t even stand to watch this. The chin-rubber would have Killian in restraints within a week, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
“I know, I know, and you may be right, this could be an isolated event, but the last eight or nine months … I care, Julia. So I’m worried.” He hugged her again, his bulkier body nearly swallowing her smaller one whole.
“Skeevy bastards, that’s what they all are. Wake up, Julia,” I shouted right at her.
Disgusted, I pressed against the wall to scoot past them. Seriously, what was I supposed to do now? My one and only brilliant idea was currently gorked out of his brain and probably drooling on his pillow. And the information he’d given me? Not so much of a help.
I stomped soundlessly down the hall through the kitchen and into the living room to flop onto the plaid couch. As eye-piercingly ugly as it was, it felt pretty comfortable. Maybe that’s why they’d ignored all good sense and kept it around.
I needed a plan. Killian was out of the game, probably indefinitely. Bargain or no bargain, he wasn’t going to risk helping me, not with his freedom on the line. I almost couldn’t blame him. Unfortunately, the other dead people I’d met didn’t seem to have any clue about how to get out of here or else they’d have already done it, so I was on my own. No biggie—I’d been going it alone pretty much since I was thirteen. Though, paying the bills and keeping my mother sober enough to attend parent-teacher conferences once a semester didn’t quite equal determining the fate of my eternal soul, but whatever. I could do it. I always got what I wanted, one way or another, right? You just had to keep pushing until someone or something gives in. She who quits last, wins. I used to have a cheerleading camp T-shirt that said that.
First things first. I needed a pen and some paper. Things always look more manageable when they’re written out. I didn’t win homecoming queen three times without a little effort and planning, you know. Kicking my legs out, I let the momentum pull me off the couch and to my feet. In the process, one of my ankles passed through a beat-up brown leather briefcase leaning partially against the side of the sofa.
Miller’s. It had to be. It hadn’t been in here when I’d first come in … well, fallen in. The main zipper pocket strained around a massive number of manila file folders and black-and-white composition notebooks, all jammed in unevenly and at odd angles. The nylon carrying strap had broken off on both sides, and the remaining bits of strap had sprouted tufts of brown fuzz. The briefcase looked like some kind of strange creature caught in midchew.
I grinned. Perfect. No good chin-rubber would ever be caught without a notebook and a multitude of pens. With just a bit of concentration …
Bending down, I focused on the briefcase, imagining the worn leather under my fingertips and the cool metal of the zipper teeth.
The briefcase creature flopped on its side and promptly barfed up its contents. Pens, the thick expensive kind, rolled free, along with a multitude of files. I grabbed for the least battered-looking composition notebook … and my hand passed through it.
“Dammit.”
I tried again with the same results. This time, concentrating on making the notebook solid, I reached for it and my hand touched the corner of it, but only for a split second.
“Oh, forget it.” If it was this hard to pick up a notebook without Killian right next to me with his personal voodoo or whatever, how would I manage to hold a pen, let alone write? “This sucks,” I said aloud to no one in particular.
All right, so no pen and paper. I could still work strategy in my head. I sat down on the floor, crossing my legs. Killian said this was about unfinished business, issues I needed to resolve. Actually, he’d said I didn’t have any issues. Showed what he knew.
But how was anyone in my condition supposed to resolve anything? No one could see or hear me, other than Killian, and I didn’t seem to have gained any sort of afterlife-related super powers, like haunting people’s dreams or whatever. I did have the whole passing-through-solid-objects thing working for me, but that seemed decidedly less than useful
at the moment.
I drew my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around my legs, blinking back the sudden and unwelcome sting of tears. It seemed kind of an unfair test. Sure, you can move on to heaven if you can do the impossible. Otherwise, you’re stuck here … forever. Alone.
No. I shook my head and straightened up. I wouldn’t let this beat me. There had to be a way to win. I always won.
Thinking, I chewed on the side of my thumbnail for a second before catching myself. Dead or not, ragged and spit-covered nails are unacceptable.
If Killian hadn’t been unconscious, I could have given him messages to deliver for me. I imagined him walking up to Chris and passing along the fact that his dead girlfriend was not so happy with him these days. Yeah, Killian would really need a stay in the hospital after that.
Staring down at Miller’s tipped-over bag and the mess of files, folders, and papers on the floor in front of me, I got an idea. Maybe I was thinking too literally. Communication from the great beyond, even if it was actually not-so-great and not-so-beyond, should be subtle.
Concentrating on the topmost file, I gave it a shove, and it slid down the mountain of paperwork before settling on the carpeting. From there, moving it across the carpet and into position with little jabs was actually pretty easy. I figured I’d need about five or six more files to make my point.
Fortunately, Miller was the long-winded type—no surprise there. They’d started down the hall toward the kitchen a while ago, but he’d stopped there to schmooze further, and I could hear bits and pieces of their conversation as I worked.
“… Encourage you to reconsider, Julia.”
“I appreciate that, Max, I do. But he’s my son and …”
“What if he’d been driving during this last attack? Have you considered that?”
Julia’s response was a low and seemingly angry murmur that I couldn’t hear. Good for her. Therapists aren’t the be-all and end-all of knowledge. Sometimes they’re just another way to lose money.
Out of breath from the effort required, I shoved the last composition book into place—I’d mixed it up a little between notebooks and folders for effect—and stepped back to admire my work. Very nice, but maybe a little more was needed? A little artistry perhaps?
Kneeling down again, I pushed at another folder. Only this one, much heavier and thicker with more paper than the others, spilled its contents instead of sliding across the floor. The uppermost document looked like a letter and the rest were … chapters? Neatly typed pages with dialogue and headings …
I leaned closer for a better look. The letter on top was from Page Seven Books and addressed to Dr. Miller.
Dear Dr. Miller,
We are most intrigued by the partial of your book, The Dead Don’t Speak. We like the illicit romance between the psychiatrist and the afflicted boy’s mother as well as the mystery of whether the boy, young Billy, is truly haunted or just mentally ill. Did his father commit suicide or was he killed by the same spirits that now haunt his son? We also think you have an excellent platform, as a psychiatrist who has treated many of these kinds of cases.
Please send a complete manuscript at your earliest convenience.
Regards,
Roger Fillmore
Senior Acquisitions Editor
Oh, my God. Unbelievable. Miller was turning his life into a book. No wonder he was pushing so hard for Killian to be put away. He needed to write the end. Not to mention the freedom to openly mack on Killian’s mom. Ew!
I reached over to flick aside the letter and read the chapters beneath, but then I heard Miller’s voice getting closer.
“I’ll just collect my bag and be on my way now. I have other patients waiting,” Miller said stiffly. Evidently, Killian’s mom had put him in his place, at least for now.
With a little effort, I managed to push the publisher’s letter and the first chapter or so under the couch. Then I was out of time.
Miller stalked through the kitchen and into the living room, stopping dead when he saw his spilled bag. “What—?”
Then he turned and saw my display. Two manila folders represented eyes, and a third held the place of a nose. Then, five composition notebooks, with their black-and-white covers, formed a menacing—as menacing as one can be with paper products—scowl. All in all, it was a big giant frowny face made out of his stuff in the middle of the living room carpeting.
Miller’s face went white, and I laughed.
“J-J-Julia,” he sputtered.
“What is it?” She appeared in the living room doorway with a frown. Then she caught a glimpse of my work. Her mouth fell open, and her knees sagged, forcing her to cling to the wall.
I winced. This wasn’t supposed to be a strike against her.
“Did you do this?” Miller demanded.
“Idiot,” I said to him. “When did she have time? She went with you, remember?”
But Mrs. Killian wasn’t thinking that clearly. “It’s Danny,” she said, looking faint. “He always pulled tricks like this, moving things around. Once I found my kitchen timer in the freezer. He swore he didn’t do it, but …” She sank to her knees and started to cry.
“Don’t be silly,” he snapped. “Your husband is dead. He’s gone on to a better place. He’s not fiddling with notebooks and sending you messages. If you didn’t do it, then it’s that boy.” He glared in the direction of Killian’s room as though he could see through walls.
“Oh, yeah, because after you doped him up, he slipped past you in the hallway, did this, and then sneaked back in without you even noticing.” I rolled my eyes.
Julia lifted her chin and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “You gave him a sedative, Max.”
“This is ridiculous.” He snatched up his bag and began cramming the contents back inside. “Ghosts are part of people’s imagination, designed to comfort them in times of loss. Period. End of story.” But his hands shook when he bent down to scoop up the folders and notebooks from my frowny face.
“Oh, Max, don’t spoil the ending for us,” I taunted. “You’ve still got to write it.”
He rushed toward the kitchen, nearly knocking over Killian’s mom in the process. “What about our next appointment?” she asked between sobs.
“I’ll call you,” he said curtly.
Then the back door slammed, and Mrs. Killian’s shoulders slumped even further, shaking with her crying.
“You should listen to your son,” I told her. “He’s telling the truth.” The high of my first successful communication was wearing off a little in light of her weeping. Actually, I was feeling a little light-headed and woozy, sort of like this morning when …
I looked down and found I could see through my arms folded over my chest. In fact, I could see all the way through to the bookcase behind me.
Aw, crap.
“Did you know about this?” My mother’s voice intruded on a dream in which a large animated eggplant named Bob teetered on the edge of a cliff with thoughts of suicide and Parmesan.
I woke slowly, without opening my eyes. My eyelids felt gummy and stuck to my eyeballs, my head throbbed worse than it had yesterday, and my back ached from sleeping for hours without moving. I could feel the sunshine beaming in through the open blinds, warmer and brighter than yesterday. It had to be morning again.
“William, I’m speaking to you. Wake up!” Her voice held an unusual edge.
I peeled my eyelids up and squinted at her. She stood at the foot of my now-lopsided bed, a fistful of papers in her hand. “What are you talking about?” I mumbled.
“This.” She stalked forward and held the papers, fanned out in her hand, in front of my face.
The top one appeared to be a letter to Dr. Miller about a book… .
I sat up straighter, ignoring the various aches and pains. “He was writing a book about us? Where did you find this? Did he give this—”
“No, no.” She shook her head. “I found it yesterday under the couch when I was cleaning afte
r that stunt you pulled.”
The cleaning part made sense. My mom always cleaned when she was upset. The year my dad died, she wore out three vacuum cleaners. As for the rest … “What are you talking about?”
She shuffled the papers together in her hands and gave a nervous laugh. “Oh, don’t try that on me. I’ve been your mother too long, and besides, your father used to pull the same tricks before you. Moving things around when I wasn’t looking and claiming to know nothing about it.”
Alona. I flopped my head back on the pillow. It had to be. She was the only one who’d been here yesterday, at least as far as I knew. “What trick did you find yesterday?” I asked cautiously.
She rolled her eyes. “Are there any others more obvious? Dr. Miller’s papers spread all over the room and that frowny face made from the folders and notebooks. He was quite frightened.” She stared down at the papers in her hands, her mouth tightening in displeasure. “A scare he richly deserved in my opinion.”
“Oh,” I said. “That trick.” Wow. It must have taken a huge amount of energy from her to move all of that around without me nearby. The dead can touch things in our realm briefly—hence all the ghost stories about pictures falling off walls, doors slamming, lights turning off or on—but only with intense concentration, and it really drains them.
My mom perched on the side of my bed, bracing her feet against the floor to keep from sliding off. “That was you, wasn’t it?” she asked hesitantly. “You found out about the book somehow and wanted to punish him? You called a friend to come in while we were upstairs. Joonie, maybe. The back door was unlocked the whole time, I checked.”
She sounded so hopeful, the way she had it all worked out without any ghosts or supernatural elements involved. My father’s words to me when I was six echoed in my head. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t want to understand, Will. It scares her. He’d drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, while we waited for my mother to join us in the car. She was crying in the bathroom. I’d just ruined a rare night out for us in a restaurant by announcing that Grandma Reilly said not to order the fish because it looked old. Grandma Reilly, my mother’s mother, had died six months earlier of a heart attack. It’s a curse, sport, and I’m sorry that I’ve passed it on to you. Do the best you can to live a normal life, and try not to let it hurt the ones you love. That’s all I can say.
