Never Dead (Welcome To Dead House Book 1)

by M. L. Bullock

  It was time to deal with the silverware and maybe make some coffee. I turned away from the window and was about to slide my phone back in my pocket when I noticed the blip on the screen.

  The ReCord app had grabbed two items, two mini audio clips. One had to be me. I’d spoken once up here. I tapped on the screen to play them both. The first one was me, like I thought, only I sounded a little too loud and distorted.

  Note to self, don’t turn the app all the way up when using it. Apparently, they’d fixed the volume bug.

  The second voice wasn’t mine.

  To quote my grandmother, “That ain’t friendly.”

  There were only three words in the second clip, but I didn’t need any software to decipher the meaning. This wasn’t an archaic language like you’d see in a horror movie. They were pretty plain to me.

  “GET OUT NOW!”

  6

  Chloe

  “You drive like a nun, Otis. Would you please get a move on? What year is this car anyway?” I teased my friend as his vehicle lurched forward. I wasn’t sure he had this whole stick shift thing down, but as I wasn’t riding the bus, I reminded myself not to gripe too much. It wasn’t like I had a car.

  Creepy Addams Family home? Check.

  Nosy ghost with no consideration for personal space? Check.

  Weirdo lady who thinks she’s my aunt? Check.

  Car? Nope.

  “I should never have told you my middle name. No one calls me that except my grandmother, so unless you want me to start calling you Granny…”

  I put my hands up as if to say, “I surrender.” He grinned at me, showing me his perfect white teeth. His dang smile was impossible to ignore, and I really liked it, almost enough to kind of trust him. He wasn’t really my type, if I could say I had one. The truth was I’d never even been on a date before, although I’d hung out with boys on many occasions, usually at the mall or at the gaming store, but always in a group setting.

  I couldn’t believe it when Tamara handed me gas money this morning. I had expected an argument, and I’d come downstairs mentally prepared to stand my ground, but the ghost demanded all her attention as usual. He was trying to kill himself, I guessed. Typical of him. Ever since we moved into the “old homestead,” he’d made himself the center of attention, her attention at least. The upside was she wasn’t constantly asking me if I was okay anymore, but I did feel lonely. Sometimes the ghost was too much. I’d already made up my mind I wasn’t going to give him the time of day or acknowledge him ever again if I didn’t have to unless he continued to plunder through my things. Then I’d have to figure out how to get rid of his skinny ghostly behind. The salt and sage weren’t working as well as I’d hoped. Maybe if I did banish him, Tamara and I could have a conversation without his Caspar-y ass inserting himself.

  Great. I was jealous of a ghost.

  In the beginning, I thought I’d imagined Joey, at least the first time. I spotted him when I’d gone to the bathroom in the middle of the night. He’d been walking down the hall with a doo-rag on his head, only it wasn’t actually a doo-rag. It was my favorite scarf, the one with the pixelated Pac Lady all over it. I went off on him without thinking that he wasn’t a real guy, a real living guy. He’d tossed the scarf to the ground and vanished into the wall with a dramatic flair. I should have known then he’d be a problem.

  But I hadn’t dreamed him up. Joey was as real as Trey Otis Armstrong. Tamara saw him too. The real twenty-thousand-dollar question was if we weren’t both hallucinating, then where was my mom? Was it like it had been in life, she couldn’t be bothered with her unwanted kid?

  Didn’t she love me enough to haunt me?

  Nope. Instead, I was stuck with Joey.

  The Splash Girls sang loudly from the car’s scratchy speakers. I couldn’t decipher what they were saying. They screamed too much for my liking, and I didn’t care enough about the all-girl band to find the lyrics. Apparently, Trey liked them because he turned them up and kind of sang along.

  Minus five points for his music choices.

  I couldn’t understand why Trey wasn’t considered one of the cool kids. More than a few of the snobaritas, my verbiage for snobby girls who liked clustering up and being all cliquish, checked Trey out on the daily. In the beginning, a few of the more daring snobaritas tried to chum me up, but only to get the info on Trey.

  They gave up pretty quick when I gave them the cold shoulder, but I’d made a few friends. None on the bus, though. Trey and I had hit it off almost right away.

  I couldn’t figure him out. Like me, he seemed to enjoy his own company. Nobody picked on him. He was too tall to be bullied, and he sat where he wanted at lunch. He was like Sweden. He was everyone’s friend but nobody’s best friend. Despite his handsome, southern boy looks, Trey Armstrong didn’t hang with the in-crowd. He could certainly pass for the All-American jock type. I wondered why he didn’t play football or basketball or something. Maybe he did, and I didn’t know.

  This is why I liked him. He was a complex character and kind of mysterious.

  “How do you know how nuns drive? Have you ever ridden in a car with a nun?” he asked as he wheeled into the school and managed to park his rickety car without hitting the one beside it. “That’s it, isn’t it? You went to Catholic school?”

  “No, Sherlock. I didn’t go to Catholic school, and I have no nun friends. Should I put ‘riding with nuns’ on my bucket list?” I joked as I reached for my bookbag and the door handle. We were going to be late if we didn’t get a move on. I might be a lot of things, like a loner, a gamer, and usually the smartest girl in the room, but I hated being late.

  He turned off the car and reached for his book. Just the one book. Trey never brought books home with him, and I knew he got good grades. Was he really so smart he didn’t have to study? “Hey, hold on a second. I don’t know anything about you, Chloe. Not really. Tell me something.”

  “What?” I tucked my hair behind my ears, forgetting I liked keeping them hidden. They were monster-sized and my least favorite feature, along with my eyebrows. “We’re going to get written up, Trey. Can we play Ten Questions later?”

  His smile vanished but only briefly. It quickly returned with its usual brilliance. “Fine. Be evasive, Chloe. I like a challenge. Let’s go before we get drenched. Need a ride home?”

  “Yeah, and I’ve got some cash for you. Tamara says no freebies.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous. I live right down the street. Shoot! It’s about to pour. Let’s go!”

  We both took off running as the clouds burst above us. Suddenly, Trey’s hand was in mine, and he was tugging me along to the covered sidewalk as if I couldn’t figure out how to get there on my own. His skin was warm but not sweaty, and his touch was gentle but steady. It was the first time a boy ever held my hand and I loved every second of it. To my surprise, we weren’t late. A few people gave us weird looks, and I quickly pulled my hand away. I hadn’t been at this school long enough to commit to one boy.

  Trey didn’t seem to notice. He waved goodbye and headed toward his classroom as the first bell rang. In a matter of seconds, the hallway cleared, and the sky went so dark I turned to look behind me. The sudden storm had blown up fast and the doors, heavy as they were, hadn’t shut all the way. Suddenly, they swung open, and a vicious wind blew down the hallway. I couldn’t think why, but it felt personal—like the wind was coming for me.

  “Don’t worry about it, Miss Ridaught. I’ll get it. Go on to class. You wouldn’t want to get blown out the doors.” Henry the janitor pushed his plastic garbage can to the side, and remarkably it didn’t budge as he tucked his head down and walked to the door. I didn’t correct him. He wasn’t the first person to assume my last name was Ridaught. I did live at the Ridaught Plantation, but that wasn’t my name. It had been my mom’s before she got married, albeit briefly. My last name was Carol. Chloe Carol. What a joke of a name. Mom liked calling me CiCi, but I hated that. It was a stupid nickname for a kid unless yo
u wanted that kid to become a stripper one day.

  No thanks, Mom. One stripper in the family is enough. That will never be me.

  I walked into the classroom, unaware that my skirt had blown up and my hair looked like I’d stepped out of a wind tunnel. “Hey, hold on a second.” A girl next to the door, Nicole, reached for my skirt and rescued me from exposing my underpants to the entire school.

  “Thanks,” I whispered as I took my seat behind her and avoided making eye contact with anyone else. Our teacher, a boring man with a big mustache, went over the highlights of the chapter, but this was Monday, which meant reading day.

  Sometimes, Mr. Owens had us read aloud, and on other days we “enjoyed” silent reading. I knew he had migraines, although I wasn’t sure how I knew that. They were pretty bad too. He really needed to go see a doctor, but it wasn’t my place to tell him. I was just another pimple-faced teenager in his classroom, with too much attitude and not enough brains.

  If he’d hoped for silence today, he was out of luck. The big picture windows were distracting for the students. We weren’t getting any reading done. The lightning and wind were impossible to ignore. Paper and debris blew around the concourse, and our classroom overlooked the edge of it. The school was built in a U-shape, and while not very large, it had been large enough to get lost the first few times here.

  To my complete shock, I saw a man walking across the concourse. He didn’t seem concerned about the dangerous lightning and the pelting rain, or that at any moment we might have a tornado barreling down on us. This felt like tornado weather. Didn’t anyone else see him? As I thought that and watched the man cross the yard, I heard the loudspeaker announcement.

  “Faculty and students, please shelter in the hallway. All classes, please proceed to the hallway.”

  The man kept walking. Where was he going? The class was practically running out to find shelter in the hallway, which seemed stupid. Who thought hiding beneath row upon row of metal lockers was a smart idea? Only me and Mr. Owens seemed to notice the man.

  It wasn’t a man, it was Joey. His tell-tale walk would give him away anywhere. He tended to swing his hands if he was stressed about something.

  “Joey?” I whispered as I watched him come closer. The wind didn’t wet his perfect hair, or even move it. He wasn’t wet, but he was clearly vexed. Before I could say another word, Mr. Owens closed the blinds.

  “You heard the principal, Chloe. In the hallway, please.”

  “But…”

  He wasn’t taking no for an answer, and I couldn’t see Joey anymore. I wondered what was going on. Was it something at the house or Tamara?

  Embarrassed and quite sure Mr. Owens had seen Joey too, I joined my class and took a spot on the floor. The lights flickered until finally, they went off completely. Someone was softly crying. The school shook like an angry giant had a hold of it and wasn’t letting it go until it broke it into a hundred pieces. The creaking and moaning were unreal like something out of a horror movie. Who was crying?

  I realized that someone was me.

  An arm went around my shoulder. Trey was beside me, and his damp sweatshirt rubbed against my skin. The tornado roared over the school while the gathered students collectively screamed, and some prayed. Some were crying, like me. I wasn’t afraid, not for myself, but I couldn’t say what I was feeling.

  Trey held me and whispered, “It’s all right. We’re going to be fine. Breathe, Chloe.” I clung to his arm after the windows blew out in the classroom behind us. The crashing sound seemed to go on forever, and then it suddenly quit.

  Everything got quiet. Far too quiet.

  The air went eerily still, and the darkness vanished. The sky was kind of red-pink. “Oh, no,” I heard the girl behind me say. It was the calm before the second half of this storm.

  Joey was there too, on the other side of me. His arm encircled mine, and he kept his head down. What a weird sensation. Living warmth on one arm, and a cold, aching sensation on the other. I knew he couldn’t help that he was dead, but Joey’s afterlife state wasn’t good for the living.

  What are you doing here? I demanded. I wasn’t speaking with my mouth, but with my mind. I knew for a fact it wasn’t something Tamara could do, but we weren’t related. Maybe this sort of mind-melding with a ghost only happened with people in my family.

  Of course, Joey could hear me. We’d had more than a few arguments like this.

  You should be with Tamara. Is she okay?

  Fine, she’s fine. Except for the others.

  Trey started yelling, “Get down!” The roof of the school lifted, but only a few feet. It was like that angry giant had started to pull it up but changed his mind. He didn’t really want to tear up the school. Just the roof. It plopped down, and a few pieces of something fell to the ground. Then the roaring stopped. The tornado’s strength had abated. I wiped away tears and kept my head down.

  It’s okay, Chloe. I’m here for you. I’m here to protect you because she can’t come.

  I peeked at him and couldn’t stop myself from frowning. Why was I always frowning at the ghost?

  You should have stayed with her, Joey. As you can see, I am fine. And why are you wearing my plaid shirt? What did I tell you about getting into my clothes? Wait a second, what do you mean, “she can’t come.” What’s happened to Tamara?

  My heart sunk until I heard his response.

  Tamara is at home playing with the silverware. I’m here because your mom asked me to come. Nice lady. Too much lipstick, though. I thought this was Tamara’s shirt. I found it in her closet.

  The alarms were going off and the rain continued to fall, but there was no greater storm than the one in my heart. Joey faded like a shaken Etch-a-Sketch. He slowly evaporated and blended into the scenery. Nobody saw him. No one but me.

  Thank you.

  Joey did not answer. He was gone. Everyone was crying now, crying and swearing. Even the teachers. “Take me home, Trey. I have to go home.”

  Joey was gone, and I had to go too. I felt like I was going to have a panic attack if I didn’t see Tamara. I had to make sure she was okay, and maybe, just maybe, I’d see my mom. If there was a chance, I had to try.

  “After the storm is over, I’ll take you home. We can’t go out there now. Look, Chloe. People are hurt. Mr. Owens. Oh, God. I think he’s bleeding!”

  Our teacher was lying on the floor, a pool of blood beneath his head, but he was alive.

  “Someone call 911!” Trey yelled.

  7

  Annie Hensley

  1987

  Marjorie’s whimpers ended, but they were replaced with my own. It was odd to make such a sound. I didn’t like hearing it. How many times had I heard the death rattle—the sound a dying patient makes?

  Could I be dying? What was happening to me? The pain! Oh, the pain!

  I desperately wanted to beg for my life, to plead with my shadowy attacker, but no sound would form in my throat. My attacker’s grip was so tight around my throat I could feel the tiny bones in my neck weaken beneath his grip. With his hands still wrapped tightly, the shadow forced me against the wall, and we were face-to-face.

  This was no shadow, no creature or ghost.

  I knew this face.

  I had worked with Paul West for months, but we hadn't said more than casual greetings. He worked the night shift while I worked days, and the only time we exchanged much more than a passing hello or goodbye was in concern for Marjorie. On more than one occasion, I had noticed some of her medication missing. I’d asked him about it and made a report, which was standard procedure. I couldn’t fathom a reason for this terrifying assault.

  Even though my mind raced and my heart beat heavily, my mind could not come up with a good reason for this violence.

  Paul? I tried to vocalize his name to beg for mercy.

  Marjorie! What had he done with her?

  I had to survive, I thought even as my skin tingled from lack of oxygen. I knew enough about the dying process to kno
w how things unraveled. For a second as he leaned in, I thought maybe he would let me go or assault me and be done with it, but he breathed on my neck and began speaking atrocious inappropriate threats, things that made me sick to hear them.

  Suddenly, my summer self-protection training class at the YMCA came back to mind. As my ex-roommate used to say, “Dating in the 80s was a dangerous prospect.” This wasn’t a date. I brought my knee up as far as I could and contacted his gonads. Paul West immediately dropped to the ground with a growl of a threat in his mouth.

  I fell back against the wall as he released me. I could hardly stand upright, but I was mobile enough to try and get away, and I had enough awareness to know I needed to do it quickly. I had to leave the Ridaught Plantation and find safety.

  It was dark outside as I stumbled my way to the open front door. One hand rubbed at my throat while I felt my pockets for my keys, but they were gone. I must've dropped them during the assault, and I couldn't go back in there.

  I didn't know how long it would take him to recover, and when he did, I would be in a worse situation. My white leather shoes tapped on the dirty floor as I ran. Paul cursed me from the other room. He was swearing at me and calling me profane names, which did not inspire me to linger.

  “When I get my hands on you…”

  I stumbled out the front door, scratching my knees and making one bleed, but the urgency of my situation wasn't lost on me. I ran down the driveway and raced toward my car. The doors weren’t locked. What was I going to do now, hide in the car and lock the doors?

  He could break the glass, and then what? I saw his grungy motorcycle. I had no idea how to drive one.

  No! Run, Annie! Run for your life, girl!

  I hurried toward the woods and whimpered as I stumbled through low patches of berry laden stickers. I glanced over my shoulder, but I didn’t see him. Then I did, coming for me.

  I screamed, but my voice did not cooperate. He’d damaged my vocal cords. I cried silently as I struggled to scream. I ran as fast as I could, but my legs were freezing, and my shoes were making an odd slapping sound as I flew deep into the woods. I ran toward a clearing in the woods in the hope of getting my bearings. Stars burned brightly above me, but I was no Girl Scout. I couldn’t read the stars, but I knew the North Star. If I traveled in one direction, I was bound to make it to a road.