He kisses me soundly on the lips and smiles from ear to ear. "You seriously are the cutest thing ever."
I grab his hand and pull him along with me toward the slide. "Come on, you cutie, yourself."
Can't believe I just said that out loud, but he can hear it in my head anyway, so what's the point of playing coy?
Impatiently, I tap my foot as I wait in line behind about six little kids. At least two of them don't meet the height requirements for this ride, but no one seems to care at all. We linger until we see the person spew out of the bottom of the tunnel and into the wading pool to the right of the staircase.
Patrick points up and then to the side. "You jump in up there and it slides you through this tunnel maze outside and then you end up there."
I clap my hands. "I can't wait!"
This is awesome. I'm not stressing about anything at all. Not Mr. Haunted Sandwich or Xander the Doll or anything else that might be trying to speak to me. Today, I'm just a normal teenager on a date with her boyfriend. End of story.
Patrick moves forward a step. "I'm next!"
"Why can't I be first?" I say with a pretend pout.
"Because I want to see you when you get to the end."
"Awww, that's sweet."
"Not really," he says. "I want to see your expression."
I elbow him and laugh. This boy knows how to make me happy.
When a roly-poly eight-year-old slides into the waiting pool, Patrick flashes me a grin. "I'm up! See you at the end, schweetheart."
With that, he bounds up the spiral staircase and out of view. But not entirely out of my vision. I close my eyes and concentrate, seeing that Patrick is sharing his ride experience with me.
Here we go, he says to me.
And away!
The tube is filled with about six inches of water and I'm riding down the tunnel with Patrick, seeing what he sees. He takes a right curve first, then a sharp left. Light from the dingy day outside brightens the tunnel in the third turn where the water churns up like a small tidal wave. Left, right, straight, and then—swooooooooosh—into the tidal pool.
I open my eyes to see my boyfriend flat on his back in the shallow water, shaking off the ride. Pounding up the staircase, I call down to him, "Now you can ride with me."
He gives me the okay signal and I continue up.
At the top, a bored teenage girl—probably my age—sits on a stool, picking at the split ends of her hair. She must be hard-core loco if she doesn't enjoy this job.
I smile and say hey to her, but all I get is a grunt in return. Whatever. I'm celebrating life today! Patrick has given me a gift and I'm going to take the pleasure of the day to the bank, annoyed fellow teenager aside.
There's a flat landing with a wide mouth that opens into the slide tunnel. I crawl in and position myself forward, feet first, like the instructional poster indicates. God forbid Ms. Split Ends does anything to earn her paycheck other than sit there and look bored to tears.
Okay, here I go.
I'm with you, Kendall.
Releasing my hands overhead, I push off and I'm into the rushing water, corkscrewing down the slide. The cool water tickles my skin as I slip through the channel. A giggle bubbles up out of my chest and I wave my hands in front of me.
Then everything changes.
The fun stops.
Darkness encompasses me and I blink hard to regain my sight.
Things were going so well.
Until my psychic vision kicked in, blinding me to my surroundings.
Oh no! Patrick, help!
This one's a doozy.
While my body continues to zip through the water, my brain is struck with horrifying, vivid imagery. Flashes of metal scraping the pavement. Torn clothing. Screams of pure, out-and-out pain. Blood pooling in a jean-covered wound. A siren in the distance. Rotating blue and red lights. Not of the party kind; the police and ambulance sort.
Someone's hurt.
Bad.
Anona appears to me. Her eyes attempt to be soothing, calm, and gentle. Her words are anything but. "It is happening," she utters.
Anxiousness washes over me, mixing with the chlorine. "What's happening?" I beg.
Anona fades away. Damn these spirit guides and their ambiguousness. Can't they just come out and tell me what's what? And why tell me if I can't stop it?
My vision clears as quickly as it dimmed, and I'm belched out the bottom of the slide into the shallow pool where Patrick awaits, his brow furrowed with worry.
I gulp in a mouthful of water and immediately begin choking, coughing, and sputtering.
"Kendall!" Patrick wades out to me and gently pulls me to my feet while he pats me on the back.
Air seems in short supply as I try to get a good breath. My chest aches and both my kneecaps feel torn, bloodied, and battered. God, there are times when I really hate this empathic thing I've got going.
"Are you okay?" Patrick asks. He hugs me close to him.
I nod, but I don't really mean it. Hot tears mix with the cool water on my skin. Patrick's touch is comforting until his hand stills.
"I saw it too. At least, most of it."
"Who was it, though?"
"It's your friend Dragon," Patrick says flatly. "He's the one."
We step out of the pool and I rush over to where I left my towel, making sure I don't run and get the lifeguard whistle blown at me. The terry cloth feels good on my face as I dab my eyes, which are wet from both fun and sadness.
"What can we do?" Patrick asks. "Was it a premonition or has it already happened? Is there anything we can do to prevent it?"
Frustration overtakes me and I snap, "I don't know! These visions don't come with instructions!"
But my BlackBerry may have the answer. I tug it out from underneath Patrick's towel where I stashed it earlier, and I have three voice mails. Without even checking the messages, I dial Becca ASAP.
"Kendall?" she asks, obviously through tears.
"Becca, what happened to Dragon?"
"How did you—"
"I just know. Tell me."
"He was going home from my house and took the curve too sharply at Jackson Hill. Kendall, he totally wrecked his motorcycle and he's in the emergency room. I'm so scared!"
"We'll be right there."
"It was Xander the Doll," I say to Becca and Patrick when we get to the Radisson hospital an hour later. We meet her outside the ER.
Becca rolls her overly black-lined eyes. "A doll didn't cause Dragon to crash."
"You don't know that."
"Umm, Kendall, I totally believe in ghosts," she says, "based on our investigations and evidence we've gathered. But there's no way in hell that I'm going to believe a Civil War-era toy-slash-voodoo-doll did this to my boyfriend."
Patrick reaches out for Becca's arm. "The most important thing here is that Dragon's okay."
Becca wipes a tear out from under her eye. "I guess so, if you consider two bloody knees, a separated shoulder, and a busted upper lip okay."
"He's alive," I chime in. "Thank God he was wearing a helmet."
"Well, duh," she replies. "Sorry, I don't mean to be snippy. I'm not good at handling blood and ick and stuff like that. Certainly not from my boyfriend."
"Did anyone see what happened?" Patrick asks.
"My dad did," Becca says. "Dragon had just left my house and Dad was coming back from the grocery store. He told me it looked like Brent swerved to avoid something in the road and then lost control, slid his rice rocket across the pavement."
Patrick and I both wince, and the pain in my knees returns, obviously picking up on what Dragon experienced.
It was Xander the Doll.
You can't be sure.
If we can dig into Dragon's memory, we can find out.
I'm game if you are, he tells me in my head.
"Can we see him, Becca?" I ask.
She nods. "Only two can go in at a time, so I'll wait out here."
We walk through the automat
ic double doors leading to the emergency area. Only a few months ago I made this same journey to see Jason and Taylor after their mom attempted suicide. I felt completely helpless then, but today I'm on a mission to get to the bottom of this.
"We're here to see Brent Dragisich," Patrick informs the nurse at the desk.
"Oh, the boy who had the motorcycle wreck," she says. "He's in room four. He's a bit groggy because of the pain medication, but you're welcome to go back. Only stay a little while. He needs rest."
"Yes, ma'am," I say and then follow Patrick to Dragon's room.
With a sweep of my arm, I move the draped curtain aside and gasp when I see my friend. Both legs are bandaged up, he has an IV running into his hand, and there's a heart monitor and a blood pressure monitor on him for good measure. He's got a nasty bruise on his face, and his left arm is in a sling.
His heavy eyelids part slightly, and he seems to know who we are.
"Dragon, hey ... it's Kendall and Patrick."
He sleepily grunts an acknowledgment.
"Dude, what happened?" Patrick asks with a light laugh.
Brent's eyes open and close, and he groans while adjusting in the bed. He licks his mouth, and I can see that his upper lip is a cracked mess. Damn! Poor kid!
"Can you tell us what happened?" I press.
His lips move slightly, but the words he's mumbling are hard to understand. Then I hear him say something about "seeing it" and it being "in front" of him.
I elbow Patrick. "Did you hear that?"
"I think I did. Come on, Dragon. Talk to us."
"Sleeeeeeeeepy, man. Gotta ... sleep."
His head lolls to the side, and I know the medication has gotten to him.
My eyes meet Patrick's and we connect telepathically, each of us having the same idea. He takes Brent's right hand and I take the left. The sterile hospital room fades away, and Patrick's and my joined psychic vision explodes in a colorful burst of patterns and sounds. Much like when I was in Patrick's mind zooming through the water-tunnel slide, I am now in Brent's memories. Patrick is with me and we see everything from Brent's vantage point. He's having a great ride through the streets of Radisson and speeds up a bit too much as he approaches Jackson Hill, which curves around the old cotton mill and has a bit of a blind spot.
It's like we're riding along with him. We see something up ahead that appears to be a small human. A little child, perhaps, standing right in the middle of the road. Brent squeezes the brakes, which lock into place. The front of the bike swerves as he avoids the child, and he overcompensates as he tries to right the bike. The motorcycle wobbles, falls, and then skids across the pavement, bringing Brent along for a not-so-fun ride. I feel his pain again, from the jags in his knees to the excruciating pain in his mouth as he cuts his lip. A small laugh comes from behind the wrecked bike. The laugh of someone in control of this situation. Who purposely tripped up Brent and caused this.
I spin in the vision and come eyeball to buttons with the perpetrator.
The image bursts apart and I lose my grip on Dragon's hand, nearly falling to the floor.
My eyes shift to Patrick, across the bed. "You saw him, didn't you?"
He can't help but nod in agreement.
"You were right, Kendall."
Chapter Nine
LOREEN AND FATHER MASS LAUGH OFF our theory when we're eating Sunday brunch with them after church at the Café Buffet.
Father Mass, my Episcopal priest and Loreen's boyfriend, wipes his mouth with the cloth napkin. "It's just folklore," he says. "It's nothing but a story to tell people so they'll buy a T-shirt or magnet at one of the gift shops in town."
"That's just it," I explain, "Mr. Pfeiffer at the historical society is all hush-hush about the building. They have an office in the back where people can file inquiries and stuff, but you're not allowed into Farnsworth House. Doesn't that defeat the purpose of sharing history? And they've got Xander the Doll stashed upstairs in his own room. Don't you think that's freaky weird?"
Loreen sets her iced tea down on the table. "I have to agree with Massimo, you two. I've seen a lot as a psychic/medium, but I've never heard of a historical doll encased in a glass box in a building moving itself and causing a motorcycle accident to injure someone who'd posed in a picture with it."
"It happened though!"
The older couple at the table next to us glance up from their fried chicken when I raise my voice.
"I'm just saying..."
Patrick comes to my defense. "We did a lot of research on the Internet last night and we found out that there's a history of odd things occurring in conjunction with Xander the Doll."
I can tell Father Mass is intrigued. "Such as?" he asks.
Sitting forward, I say, "Robert Townsend Farnsworth was accused of setting fires when he was a little boy, but he attributed the fires to Xander. To sort of punish Robert, his parents made a room in the attic for Xander. He was locked away when Robert was at school or out playing. However, they would always find the door open and the room empty, even when Robert wasn't home."
"That's weird," Loreen says.
"I'm telling you, this doll has powers given to him by that voodoo-priestess nanny."
Father Mass lays his napkin down and pushes his plate forward. "I know you're not one to make stuff up, Kendall, but this one is really out there."
"I know. I couldn't make this stuff up. And now I think my friends are cursed because they had their picture taken with the doll."
Loreen creases her brow. "What's that all about again?"
Patrick picks at his half-eaten macaroni and cheese. "Mr. Pfeiffer told us at the fair that Xander didn't like having his picture taken. If you took a picture, bad things would happen."
"Like Dragon's motorcycle accident."
Father Mass folds his hands together. "If it will make you feel better, I'll go over to the hospital this afternoon to see Brent and pray to have any curse removed. Is that good?"
"I would totally appreciate that."
The waitress comes up at that moment with a pitcher in her hand. "Y'all want some more iced tea?"
"I think we're good," Patrick says. I can read the concern in his eyes.
"I'll take the check when you get a chance," Father Mass says.
The waitress smiles through her heavy pink lipstick. "Y'all can't leave without trying the banana pudding."
I sigh. "Thanks, but I'm not exactly in a pudding mood today."
"Just the check," Loreen says with a smile.
Father Mass stands, kisses Loreen on the forehead, and says, "I'm going to the men's room. I'll be right back."
Patrick stands. "I'll go with you."
Loreen and I both laugh, breaking the tension caused by Xander.
"Hey," I call out as they go. "Only girls are supposed to go to the bathroom together."
The waitress sets the check face-down on the table and slides a small to-go box in front of Loreen and me. "Y'all take some pudding home. Whatever's bothering you, it'll make you feel better. Come back to see us!"
Loreen pushes the box at me.
"Thanks." I fiddle with the edge of the Styrofoam, contemplating everything. "I just have this horrible feeling, Loreen, that something else is going to happen. That we're not done with Xander the Doll's destruction."
"Have you tried dowsing and asking questions?"
"That's a great idea." I reach into my purse and withdraw the new jasper pendulum that I got at Loreen's store. It's blue lapis and spins like crazy for me.
I take the stone in my right hand and hold my arm close to my body. "May I ask some questions right now?"
The pendulum swings in a clockwise manner, indicating yes.
"Is Xander the Doll, who lives in the old Farnsworth House, real?"
Another clockwise spin.
"That's a bit ambiguous, hon," Loreen says. "Obviously he's real. You've seen him with your own eyes. Watch how you phrase your question."
"You're right." I concentrate and t
ry to think clearly. "Is Xander the Doll causing trouble?"
The pendulum spins yes like no tomorrow.
"Did Xander the Doll have something to do with my friend Brent's accident?"
Again, the pendulum gives me a positive response.
Loreen interjects. "Test it to make sure it's not a yes-man pendulum today."
"Do I live in Toledo, Ohio?" I ask. It's the best I could come up with.
The pendulum slows its spin and then begins to rock back and forth horizontally, which indicates my personal no.
"Okay then. Will Xander the Doll hurt someone else?"
Not only does the stone turn in the yes direction; I also hear something in my head. An echo, as if someone's in a tunnel. An echo that reverberates in my ears. Laughter with a sinister tone to it.
Suddenly, the pendulum is pulled from my hand and tossed onto the top of the box of banana pudding.
"What just happened?" Patrick asks when he and Father Mass return from the men's room.
"My pendulum says Xander will hurt again."
He takes my hand, and the lightning flash of information blinds us both. How does one describe major chaos, confusion, and destruction? How do we pinpoint when these horrible things are going to happen? Who do we warn? Who do we call?
Our hands break apart and Patrick stares at me. "I don't know who's next."
My heart sinks to my stomach and the rumble of just-eaten fried chicken makes me feel like I'm going to be sick. "I don't either."
Anona ... give me a sign. Help me. Help me help whoever's in trouble. Help me stop this damn doll and his vengeance.
But nothing. Anona's not speaking to me.
I stare at Loreen, hoping she might be able to offer guidance. Instead, she pushes her brunch plate away from her, knocking a piece of a fried green vegetable over the side. I stare at the small morsel, watching as she picks it up and returns it to her plate.
"I shouldn't have gotten those. Never been much of a fan," she says.
"I don't blame you. Okra really is an acquired taste that..." I trail off as it hits me. "That's it! Okra!"
"What?" Patrick asks.
Ghost Huntress 5 - The Discovery Page 7
