The Ghost Hunter's Daughter

by Caroline Flarity

  “Clean up,” Jack said. “I know. Consider it done.” The front door opened and closed.

  “Don’t start,” Jack said, returning to the kitchen.

  “This freak show cannot duplicate itself anywhere else in town,” Anna said. “It will be the end of me. A social death, and believe me, I’m already in a coma. Don’t pull the plug, Dad. I’m begging you.”

  “With extra office space and another pair of hands, I can take on new clients. So, dial back the drama. And by the way,” Jack said, changing subjects, “if you use a client’s spirit board again, you're grounded, no phone, no laptop.”

  How did he know about the Ouija Queen? Did he check every inch of his hoard on a nightly basis? From outside came the toot of a horn. Freddy was there to drive her to school, and he had good timing.

  “Got it and gotta go,” Anna said, almost tripping over a box of empty mason jars on her way out the back door.

  Chapter Two

  Two Bloomtowns

  Penelope’s doghouse sat in the center of the gated backyard, the roof painted cobalt blue and adorned with a large P made of glued yellow rhinestones. Was it cheesy to bedazzle a doghouse? Probably. But why should Peeps have to live in a dump, too? Anna emptied the can of dog food into Penelope's dish and brushed fallen leaves from the doghouse roof before peeking inside.

  Penelope lay listless while her two tiny puppies suckled. The beagle had droopy ears and wide-set watery brown eyes that made her look perpetually sad. Anna reached in, making sure the dog saw her hand coming. Penelope had been unpredictable since giving birth. The beagle responded to Anna’s ear scratch with lackluster wags of her white-tipped tail.

  Only two of the four pups in the litter survived, and from the looks of them, the yappy terrier down the block was the puppy-daddy. Jack planned to get Penelope spayed years ago but never got around to it, too busy growing his hoard and chasing down haunted toasters. But that wasn’t entirely fair. Anna could have, should have, pushed the issue. They’d both failed Penelope.

  Anna got to her feet, suddenly feeling old and tired in her strong sixteen-year-old body. She said good-bye to Penelope and the pups, wincing as a faint throbbing kicked in behind her eyes. There wasn’t time to track down a Tylenol; Freddy waited out front.

  Anna picked her way through the side yard. She’d made it outside but had not escaped Jack’s hoard. Winding around from the backyard along the side of the house was a massive pile of old newspapers. The papers sat corroding atop an old stack of kindling for the unusable fireplace in the unlivable living room. Along the base of this Great Wall of Crap, scattered in the grass, lay Jack’s collection of pipes from his plumbing days.

  In the front yard, the claustrophobic din of Jack’s Crap gave way to the boring suburban landscape of Bloomtown, New Jersey. The early-fall air was thick with the sounds of sprinklers whick-whicking over the neighbors’ well-manicured, uppity middle-class lawns. Freddy was parked across the street in Major Tom, the name he’d given to his dad’s old Jeep. He spotted Anna and smoothed down his mop of curly brown hair—or as he called it, his jewfro.

  “Your dad’s car is hemorrhaging again,” Freddy said, as Anna got in the passenger seat.

  Jack’s aging sedan, green except for one rusted beige door, sat in the driveway crammed so full of papers, boxes and trash that only a few swaths of the pleather interior were visible. On either side of the driveway, the overgrown front yard resembled a miniature field of wheat, concealing junk piles hidden in the tall grass. Six months ago, when the doors of the garage began to bulge and crack from the unrelenting pressure, Jack started “temporarily” storing items in the yard—mostly cleared objects that his clients didn’t want returned, and non-haunted objects that paranoid wackos from across the globe had sent him over the years.

  Anna turned the radio on and the deejay’s banter dissolved into static.

  “We're getting zapped by the sun,” Freddy said, “so the signal’s scrambled.”

  “Zapped by the what now?”

  “Don’t you watch the news?” Freddy asked in his condescending tone. “The earth is getting hit by solar flares. It’s when the sun releases a lot of energy at once. Like a massive solar barf.”

  Freddy wore a T-shirt with a big photo of Neil deGrasse Tyson on the front at least once a week but was still cute enough to annoy the popular girls with his lack of interest. If he hadn’t been Anna’s friend, Freddy might have joined the ranks of the chosen ones, sashaying down the halls. But he’d always seemed content with her and Dor.

  Two blocks down Eden Street, Doreen waited outside her house with her dark blonde hair in a ponytail, the hue of her cheeks accentuated by a red sweater with a tag sticking out in the back. Anna made a mental note to snip it for her later.

  Dor got into the back seat and Anna turned to greet her.

  “Mornin’ sunshine. Do I look okay?”

  The question was often on Anna’s mind since the situation with Craig Shine was finally getting somewhere. Over the summer, she and Craig shared music and chatted online, and since junior year started a few weeks ago, they’d flirted in the hallways, exchanging a few heat-inducing glances.

  “Hot,” Dor said, “totally hot. What about me?”

  “Super cute.” Anna made a sympathetic face. “But your sweat-sucker lines are showing.”

  Doreen had an issue with excessive armpit sweat. The technical term was primary hyperhidrosis. It was a bummer, but she managed, mainly by wearing prescription antiperspirant and applying menstrual pads to the under sleeves of her shirts.

  Doreen pulled at her sweater. “Better?”

  Anna gave her the thumbs-up.

  They drove on until the potholed roads of Old Bloomtown transitioned to smooth blacktop. “Whooshh,” they all said in unison, marking the passage. It was a nod to the days, years back, when they’d explored the newly tarred roads from their bikes. Doreen's house used to be the last house on Eden Street, a dead-end, but then the area farmers sold their land to developers. The houses in New Bloomtown were huge bloated things that dwarfed the spindly, hair-plug trees that sprouted from their yards and lined their sidewalks.

  New Bloomtown development began five years ago when a convoy of trucks and men arrived, ripping the large old pines from the woods next to Dor’s house. Freddy, Dor and Anna rode their bikes through the two hundred acres of newly cleared land, soaring up and down the dozens of dirt hills, their stomachs floating up inside their bodies like they were on a roller coaster. After the McMansions were built, they cruised the new roads, black as ink and smooth as porcelain. Whooshh. But that first summer, the sun glared off the large New Bloomtown windows. The black tar roads shimmered in the heat and melted on their wheels. Realty signs were staked into newly seeded lawns, most featuring the tanned face and blinding smile of Saul Gleason. His eyes had seemed to follow them as they rode past, creeping them out.

  While Doreen and Freddy discussed the high level of tedium involved in their calculus homework, Anna pulled down the sun visor and fidgeted with her hair. She was minutes away from a possible encounter with Craig Shine. Pink lip gloss couldn’t hurt.

  Anna made an effort to look bright to counteract the perception kids had of her. She once made the mistake of wearing a stylish black trench coat to school, and some jackass spray-painted an upside-down cross and “Satan’s Slut” on her locker. She went home early that day and sobbed until her face blew up like a blowfish, and when her dad knocked on her bedroom door she refused to let him in. How could she tell Jack that his chosen profession made her different in a bad way? Freddy and Doreen had crossed out “Satan’s Slut” with black magic markers, but the dark splotches remained for weeks until Principal Steuben finally had the janitor paint over it.

  Freddy steered Major Tom off Eden Street and traveled down the back road that connected to local Route 33, a two-lane highway packed with stoplights, gas stations, fast food and strip malls in a bland montage of Anytown, America. In the distance a water tower loomed.
Huge block letters spelled “BLOOMTOWN” across the giant bulbous tank.

  Freddy snickered when he noticed Anna fussing over her hair. “What about me?” he screeched in a horrible impression of a teenage girl. “Am I hot, or not?”

  “You are beyond hot,” Anna said. “You are what hot looks like after a workout, a blowout and a new outfit.”

  Doreen giggled in the backseat.

  “You are hot after hot’s makeover,” Anna continued, “when the audience goes nuts and friends and family cry tears of awe.”

  “Oh, am I?” Freddy screeched. “Am I that hot?”

  Anna turned around in her seat. “Take it away, Dor!”

  Doreen did her best to compose herself. “Freddy, you are so hot,” she said. “You are what hot looks like…in a women’s magazine—” She was giggling again. Dor could never get to a punch line without laughing. “After the Photoshop!”

  Freddy turned off Route 33 onto the street leading to the parking lot of Bloomtown High, a large, squat building with one sprawling floor. Right as they were about to turn into the parking lot, Sydney White turned in from the opposite lane. She was driving Mackenzie Donald’s BMW—the staple car of New Bloomtown spawn. Mackenzie sat in the passenger seat.

  Sydney was the reigning queen of the New Bloomtown set, but she had Old Bloomtown roots. She’d been one of them once, pedaling through the pines. But that was then. Sydney was now the feared ringleader of slut-shaming, whisper campaigns, sudden shunning and other mean-girl shenanigans. She had a feline, slinky grace and features of such otherworldly perfection—poreless skin and Disney-princess green eyes—that she looked almost inhuman. Her clothes wrapped around her like they were grateful, as did her long, highlighted hair that sparkled on the cloudiest of days. Next to her, Mackenzie looked like a gargoyle, but then most people did.

  Freddy braked, waving Sydney through. From behind the wheel Sydney shot them her patented dull glare, simultaneously transmitting disdain and utter boredom. Sydney had a special contempt for Dor, Freddy and Anna, but they kept their eyes unfocused and their expressions neutral. Their strategy, as always, was to navigate the waters of Bloomtown High as they would an ocean of sharks, careful not to make too big of a splash. They stuck together to appear larger to predators and thus avoid battle. Any blood spilled could spark a feeding frenzy.

  After parking, they walked up the concrete path that bisected the grassy lawn in front of the school. Approaching the large glass entrance doors, a cloud drifted in front of the sun, casting everything in shadow. Anna looked up. From behind the cloud, the sun looked rather meek, nothing but a circle in the sky. Whatever these solar flares were, they weren’t visible.

  First period bell rang and the trio parted. Anna hurried through the commons area, her footsteps silent on the trampled blue carpet. The dreary carpet extended into the cafeteria and beyond to the rows of yellow lockers along the back hallway.

  At her locker Anna looked discreetly for Craig, but he wasn’t around. Probably slept in again. Craig was the lead singer and guitarist for the Manarchists, a hardcore band with lyrics like “Screw you, screw it, screw me, I wanna screw you!” Not exactly Romeo and Juliet set to music, but Anna kind of liked that his band bit the big one. It made him more attainable, less like an untouchable Greek god. Yes, he was that hot.

  • • •

  The school day was uneventful until last-period biology. The teacher, Mr. Denton, turned on the flat-screen TV in front of the blackboard.

  “Everybody know what this is?” he asked, pointing at the screen. An image of a churning ball of fire filled the monitor. “The sun,” he said. “The star in the center of our solar system that will eventually incinerate us all. As your parents have undoubtedly mentioned to some of you, it brought you into the world…and it can take you out."

  There was a pause as Denton waited for a reaction. From the back of the room Izzy Lopowitz issued a sarcastic “har, har, har,” which was followed by a spattering of genuine laughter in the room. Bald and long-jowled, Denton always tried so hard to impress the popular kids, but Anna had empathy for him. Every afternoon he arrived with a piece of science news called The Big News of the Day. He cared, and it made the class more interesting.

  Anna took out her phone and snuck a peek at Craig’s Instagram while Denton took attendance. There he was, posed with his guitar and wearing jeans that sagged at his hips to reveal boxers adorned with the UK flag.

  Tall and lean, Craig had dark eyes and thick black hair that was half-spiked in a careless, entirely sexy way. One day, if she had the balls and the opportunity, she would get to kiss those lips. But the question of the moment was where? In the back of an empty dark classroom? No. Down at the Shore. The best part of living in southern New Jersey. They could go for a night swim and allow the black waves to rise over them, temporarily erasing the stars. He’d draw her to him, brushing his salty wet lips against hers as her fingers found the nook of his collarbone…

  Something light bounced off the back of Anna’s head and fell to the floor, ending her fantasy: a small piece of notebook paper crumpled into a soggy ball. She turned around, knowing that the two people immature enough to throw a spitball sat in the back row: Izzy Lopowitz and Frank Mafay. They usually spent class gawking at some depravity or another on their phones, but their Neanderthal brains now focused on her.

  Anna glared at them, mouthing the words grow up. Frank’s hand was cupped in front of his face, muffling his wheezy, high-pitched giggling. Next to him Izzy pretended to take notes with one hand, using the other to casually point his cell phone at Anna. She heard a faint click and turned back around, squeezing the pen in her hand. Damn it. Izzy took her picture. He’d probably use it for something ridiculous and cruel, like pasting her head onto images of naked women. He’d done it before to other girls, posting the manipulated pictures online. One of the girls, a quiet sophomore, left school for good after swallowing a bottle of sedatives. A few vultures left comments on her Facebook page saying they were sorry she didn’t finish the job.

  Both Izzy and Frank were “porn-heads,” a group of kids whose worldview was shaped by the extreme smut they spent their time watching, sharing and discussing online. Frank was Izzy’s crude and stupid sidekick, a big goon with short arms, a stocky build and saggy dog eyes. He was always smelling his fingers, either doing it quick, like he thought no one could see, or absently, with a dazed look on his face.

  Izzy was the more intimidating of the two because he fancied himself as a brooding tough guy—even though he lived a comfy suburban life and didn’t have to work. Izzy’s older brother was in jail for possession of marijuana with intent to distribute in a school zone. He got a harsh sentence, seven years, and everyone in Bloomtown knew about it. Ever since, his devastated parents let Izzy do whatever he wanted. And right now—another soggy wad whizzed past her head—Izzy wanted to launch spitballs at Goblin Girl. She ignored him. Don’t feed the trolls.

  “Okay, kids, listen up! The Big News of the Day is not just big, it’s epic,” Denton said, as the animated sun on the TV cast a glow on his hairless head.

  Groan. Anna began scrolling through her recent texts.

  “As of this morning, we are being hit with the largest solar storms in many a decade. Solar flares shoot all kinds of stuff into the atmosphere. Electrons! Ions! X-ray radiation!” Denton paused. Nobody cared.

  “Do we know what solar flares are, Ms. Fagan? We don’t have our phone out, do we?”

  Anna slipped her phone up her sleeve. “No on both counts,” she said.

  “Good! I wouldn’t want to have to confiscate it and deny you your God-given right to take a hundred selfies before bedtime.”

  Har, har, har. Denton went on about the solar flares for a while and then handed out a quiz, reminding Anna that she should have spent the morning studying instead of obsessing over her scar.

  Chapter Three

  The Anniversary

  That night, Anna dreamed she was floating on the ceiling an
d looking down at herself. The moment she screamed she woke up in her bed, her heart thumping. But something was wrong, something was missing. Her mother’s picture wasn’t on the bureau. There was a clattering sound, persistent and loud, coming from the floor underneath her mattress.

  Trembling, Anna got down on the rug and looked under her bed. Her mother’s picture was banging up and down on the floorboards. This was far too aggressive to be the work of a Trickster. Something else had gotten into her room. Anna reached her hand under the bed, petrified, but wanting the noise to stop. As soon as her fingers touched the edge of the wooden picture frame, a frame carved and sanded by her mother’s hands, something cold and sharp—a claw—grabbed the nape of her neck. Before she could scream, Anna jolted awake, back in her bed.

  It took a while to convince herself that she was awake this time. Eventually her heartbeat slowed. The photo remained on the bureau. Her breath deepened and she fell back to sleep.

  When the alarm went off a few hours later, for a moment the world seemed light and full of potential. Slivers of sunlight snuck through the curtains and cast a cheerful hue on the lilac of her walls. But then a dread descended over her and she remembered. It was the anniversary of her mother’s death.

  Jack wasn’t downstairs, and she didn’t knock on his bedroom door to say good-bye. He probably had a rough night, too. He was always withdrawn on the anniversary, either shuffling around the house avoiding Anna or holed up in the basement, fussing with the haunted objects.

  Stepping outside was like walking into an oven. It was at least eighty degrees and almost tropical with humidity. Up and down Eden Street, rows of sodden pine trees sagged under the sun’s glare.

  Freddy and Major Tom were nowhere in sight. Anna checked her watch: 7:39. Freddy was late. That wasn’t like him. After waiting another ten minutes, Anna decided that she’d rather ask Doreen’s mom for a ride than sit in strained silence in her dad’s sedan while he avoided the subject of the anniversary. Anna was about to cross the street when the yellow elementary school bus came into view, chugging up Eden Street. She squinted to see if Old Lady Minx sat behind the wheel, aka Shady M.