Lost in Starlight (Starlight Saga)

by Sherry Soule

  Time to go full-on Scooby Doo mode. If I can just get the entire story, I’ll be golden.

  The dog barks and wags his tail, looking up at me expectantly.

  “C’mon, Tiger, let’s get you home.”

  THREE

  After getting the dog safely returned to its owner, I drive straight home. But I’m still kind of ticked off about the whole Hayden incident today.

  “Who the hell does Hayden Lancaster think he is? Treating me like I’m some drooling fangirl,” I mutter.

  Whipping the steering wheel of the Jetta, I stomp the brake and lurch into the driveway in one whiplash worthy stop. I’m ready to rip the car door off the hinges when I glance up at my house—a wicked cool three-story Victorian circa the Charmed television show—and the tension eases from my shoulders. My bedroom on the third floor is the best part of the house, if you ask me.

  Rushing up the porch steps, I open the front door. Strands of Mozart float down the hallway, which means my mom’s painting in her studio. Her artwork sells for thousands of dollars all around the world. I envy her artistic talent. My portraits end up looking more like deformed stick figures with hollowed out zombie eyes.

  From the small foyer, the living room appears dimly lit and uninhabited. The familiar scent of worn leather furniture surrounds my senses. No sign of my crime reporter dad. He works for the San Francisco Times and travels a lot. Maybe that’s where I get my mad sleuthing skills.

  Hanging up my jacket and dumping my supercute Bleeding Heart backpack—with sugar-skulls and lavender hearts—on the floor near the door, I narrow my eyes.

  First, I check behind the huge potted plant next to the coat rack. Nothing.

  I scan the corners of the living room. It’s a large space, warm and comfortable, containing a soft brown leather couch and an armchair that faces a flat screen TV mounted on the wall. An oval rug covers the dark hardwood floor, and my dad’s favorite chair—a crushed orange velvet recliner sits in one corner. My mom hates that chair, she thinks it’s an eyesore beyond all imagination. And she paints abstracts.

  No hint of anyone lurking about.

  Just to be sure, I move to the closet with one hand hovering over the knob. I jerk it open and peer inside. It’s empty. All clear.

  I turn to go upstairs—

  “Mwahaha!” Jonah launches himself from behind the recliner.

  Letting out a startled scream, I clutch at my chest and stagger backward. “You little creep! Stop doing that!”

  My younger brother, Jonah, falls to the floor holding his stomach and giggling.

  I shake my head. “Man, I’m off my game today.”

  And it’s all Hayden Lancaster’s fault.

  As a rule, I usually have to be extra cautious whenever I come home. Just getting from the front door to my room can sometimes be quite an undertaking. At some point along the way, I know my brother is waiting to get me. Although, I’ll never admit it to the little creep, I actually love it. You could say it’s our thing.

  “Gotcha.” Jonah does a quick fist pump and karate stance followed by a bow of victory.

  Which is almost as annoying as getting blown off by the Grouch Brothers.

  He flops down on the sofa to tug off his sneakers. Jonah’s freckled face is flushed and his brown hair a wild mess. His jeans are baggy and there’s a dark grass stain on his knee. Jonah reminds me of a scruffy, overfed puppy that needs a bath. I wrinkle my nose. He smells like one, too.

  “Little snot.” I reach over the back of the sofa and ruffle his hair.

  As I cross through to the dining room, I pause. One of the certificates has fallen over in the china cabinet. Opening the door, I straighten it. Several framed photos of my family line the dusty shelves, along with Jonah’s numerous science honors and certificates. The kid is some kind of freaky ten-year-old genius. Beside Jonah’s stuff, my dad’s many journalism awards wink up at me. Truth is, sometimes, I’d like to get more than just a participation award. That’s part of the reason this Lancaster story is so important to me. It’ll help boost my status in a family of overachievers.

  A framed photo of my dad and me on my last birthday glints in the light. People say that we look like we could be twins. Same dirty blonde hair. Same hazel eyes. Same full lips. I disagree on the grounds of ewww.

  So that we don’t look so much alike, I started coloring my hair. But my dad doesn’t appreciate the color in my originally blonde, and now dyed purple hair. Go figure. In a way, my vibrant hairstyle and unique fashion choices somewhat hide my insecurities. But it’s not like I’m going around advertising that.

  Shuffling into the kitchen, I open the fridge and pour myself a nice big frothy glass of milk. Our kitchen is spacious and airy with copper pots hanging over a butcher-block island. The room smells like cinnamon. Not that my mom does much cooking. She isn’t much of a housekeeper, either. Do not even get me started on the bathroom. I might need to hire a team of cleaning experts. Seriously. Most of the housework gets dumped on me. She says it’s character building. I say it’s slave labor.

  I place my glass on the countertop and grab a chocolate chip cookie from the jar. Ah, comfort food. The foodie in me smiles and takes a big bite. Yum.

  Food has always been the most reliable thing in my life. At least I don’t have to worry about it ever breaking my heart. Well, technically, an unhealthy diet can cause your heart to stop functioning. But if I’m going to risk heart disease, I’d rather gorge on cheeseburgers than the soggy salads my mom forces me to eat.

  The studio door off the kitchen opens and my mom pokes out her head. “Sloane, honey, is that you?”

  I move around the island into her line of vision and lean a hip against the counter. “Yeah. Working late tonight?”

  She nods. “I have six more paintings to finish before the gallery exhibit next month.” My mom glances at the stack of dirty dishes in the sink and groans. “Let’s order pizza. Your dad has to stay another night in Boston, so it’ll just be us. There’s cash in my purse.” She points at the Coach bag lying haphazardly on a stool. “I’m not feeling up to cooking.” My mom lifts her hand to rub her temple. Specks of paint like colored freckles dot her forehead, arms, and hands.

  “Fine with me.” I knew the drill.

  My mom reclines in the doorway, a paintbrush in one hand. She’s wearing a loose peasant blouse over faded jeans. Her dark, wavy hair is twisted and knotted on top of her head, and she has pretty brown eyes, which Jonah inherited. My mom’s slim and tall, and I’ve always been envious of her natural beauty.

  “Mom, can I ask you something? Do you know the Lancasters?”

  “Sure. That family who moved here from...” She frowns thoughtfully and spreads the bristles of the damp brush with her fingers. “Was it New Mexico?”

  “I heard it was Castro Valley.”

  “That’s odd.” She shrugs her slender shoulders. “Anyway, they seem like nice folks. They have two boys close to your age, and the dad’s some hotshot lawyer named Calvin.”

  “What about their mom?”

  “I bumped into Jillian once at a PTA meeting, but she wasn’t terribly friendly.”

  “Neither are her two sons,” I mumble.

  My mom, the Food Police, eyeballs the cookie in my hand. “Baby, you really should pick healthier snacks.”

  My heart starts to pound in my wrists, my throat, my fingertips. She never really outright calls me fat, but the implication still pinches an already sore spot. I’ve never been what most would consider skinny and over the years, the extra poundage has crept on slowly.

  “Yes, Mother.” I attempt a sardonic snort and dump the cookie in the trash.

  “Good, girl.” Sticking the end of the paintbrush in her mouth for a moment, she absently picks a speck of dried paint from her arm. My mom straightens and releases the brush from between her teeth. “Can you make sure that Jonah does his homework before he gets on the PlayStation, please? I’ll be another three hours or so.”

  Translation: al
l night.

  “Sure, Mom. No problem.”

  “Thanks, honey.” She wraps me in a tight hug, kisses my cheek, and then disappears back into her studio.

  I go back toward the living room to give the creepster Mom’s instructions before he can hide somewhere and scare the bejesus outta me again.

  “Hey, twerp,” I say.

  An evil smile flashes across his face. “Hey, loser.”

  “Rough day?” I ask, not really interested.

  He jumps up. “Yeah. Eric Weiland won’t trade Pokémon cards with me. He’s got this really rare one with—”

  I cut him off. “Just stop right there. Mom’s still working and Dad’s not going to be home tonight. We’re having pizza for dinner and Mom said to finish your homework before video games, got it?”

  “I don’t want pizza. I want tater tots.”

  “Well, we’re having pizza.” I roll my eyes. “What planet are you from? Everybody loves pizza.”

  He wipes his runny nose with his sleeve. “I don’t care. Make me some tots—now.” He glares up at me with his dirty hands resting on his hips.

  I lean down, putting my face close to his. “Watch it, creepo, or you might find your face on a milk carton. And you can make your own damn tots.”

  He drops back on the couch with his bottom lip sticking out. That pouty look works on our mom, but not on me.

  “You’re not supposed to use bad words in front of me. I’m telling Mom.”

  “Go right ahead. Then I’ll tell her all about the stash of candy bars under your bed. Dad said you had to cut back on the chocolate, remember?”

  “Look who’s talking,” he snaps.

  Score one for the little jerk.

  We faceoff with death glares until I throw up my hands in defeat. No winning a staring contest with him. Somehow, he’s more stubborn than me.

  “Just do your homework and don’t bug mom. She gets pissed when we interrupt her over dumb stuff.”

  Jonah’s already ignoring me. He’s holding his Nintendo DS and playing a game, putting his stinky socked-feet on the coffee table. “Uh-huh. Whatever. Why don’t you go do some online shopping at Emos-R-Us, and stop ordering me around?”

  I clench my jaw and my shoulders bunch up. Taking a deep breath and releasing it, I tell myself that I need to be the bigger person here and not smack the little smart mouth. Instead, I stomp into the kitchen, grab the phone, and punch in the number for Basic Kneads Pizzeria.

  After ordering a large combo, I retrieve my backpack and check on my brother. The portable game system is bleeping on his lap while he’s reading his math book and scribbling equations on a piece of binder paper. Good.

  Slinging the strap of my backpack over one shoulder, I climb the stairs to the second-floor, then up another narrow staircase to the third-floor attic. Only one big room up here and it’s all mine.

  My bedroom has a sloped ceiling with wooden beams arching overhead. Three Gothic prints by the talented illustrator Victoria Frances parade over the walls and a poster of my favorite band—Thirty Seconds to Mars—hangs over the bed. Sunlight streams through the velvet drapes swathing the windows, except for the circular one facing the front of the house.

  I stretch my arms over my head and arch my back, dropping my stuff near the closet. A tangy cheese odor emanates from an open bag of Cheetos left on the desk and mingles with the sweet, almost musky, scent of strawberry incense.

  For a second, I imagine what Hayden’s room looks like. Does he have a drum set? Play that Rock Band game with his friends?

  Jinx, my black cat, is sprawled across the scarlet duvet covering the bed. He lifts his head and meows a greeting.

  My iPhone chimes with a new text, and I take it out of my purse.

  Viola: Do U want 2 go shopping next weekend?

  Me: Cool. Love to.

  Viola: Any luck w/ Hayden? R U still stalking his cute butt?

  Me: Yes. But he’s being Mr. Super Douche and blew me off.

  Viola: OMG, so much drama llama.

  Me: And U know how I hate it!

  Viola: You’ll find a way to get the truth. U always do.

  Me: Thanks for the vote of confidence.

  Viola: Gotta go help w/ dinner. Talk 2morrow.

  Tugging a piece of hair into my mouth, I chew on it and contemplate telling her what I recorded today. Or I can give it to Devin for the article. But it might be best if I keep it to myself for now and see what else I can dig up first.

  I shuffle past the sticker-encrusted desk that rests under one of the windows and holds my MacBook computer and a small TV with a built-in DVD player—perfect for watching late night horror flicks, and on the shelf above is my beloved collection of Monster High dolls. I drop my cell on the desk and catch sight of the dried funeral wreath drooping over the doorway.

  Even I’ll admit that my décor is slightly twisted. Instead of hiding in my room when I’m depressed and blasting music, I do what any moody teenage girl would do—I hang out in graveyards. Somewhat morbid, but I’ve always been a mourning person. Pun intended. Okay, so not all girls do that, but it’s not as bad as it sounds.

  I like the dose of mortality the cemetery brings. I love the beauty of the old crypts. And I enjoy kicking back on a tombstone and speculating on who these people were, what their lives were like, and even their innermost secrets. Sometimes I even spend hours dividing up bouquets of plastic flowers so that everyone has their equal share.

  Truthfully, I’ve never really considered myself normal. I prefer scary movies and going to concerts over keggers or hanging out all day at the mall.

  I switch on the beaded fringe lamp, grab my sleek laptop, and plop on the bed beside Jinx. He opens one yellow eye and yawns. I power up the MacBook and open a browser. More stalking needed ASAP.

  I search “Jillian Lancaster” and get zilch on Hayden’s mom. So I type in “Calvin Lancaster” and again nothing on him, but lots of other unknown people. For supposedly being some bigwig lawyer, I get zip on him or any of his cases. Next, I try Hayden and Zach’s names. Nada.

  For fun, I type in “humans with mind powers.”

  Holy, brain munchers.

  I get a ton of results on mutant humans with psychic abilities, kinesis, and even mental superpowers. The number isn’t even in the thousands, it’s in the millions. An overload of information.

  Twisting a piece of hair around my finger, I use one hand to type in “spoon bending” but some of the sites with articles on telekinetic powers aren’t much help. But I do come across one blog that explains how to bend metal cutlery without physical force. It’s a common magic trick. Yet...it sure didn’t seem like Hayden was impersonating a magician when he’d bent that fork.

  I decide to do a quick search on “human teleportation” and I’m amazed at all the websites that come up. One site explains that teleportation is the ability to transport from one place to another in a matter of seconds. Well, duh.

  The next site I click on states: If humans could teleport, they would most likely be the next stage of human evolution or have become mutated somehow. These mutants could teleport using the same principle as a fax machine. When you fax a document, what comes out the other end obviously looks like the original and contains the same information.

  Interesting theory.

  I scratch behind Jinx’s ears and he purrs loudly. With my free hand, I log into Facebook. Hayden or Zach must have a profile. I search the site for ten minutes before giving up. Just to be thorough, I check other social media. Zero. Zilch. Nil.

  No archives of any kind. I can’t even find anything about Hayden getting busted for hacking into Haven High’s computer system. No past records for schools, homes, locations, or jobs—as though the family doesn’t exist. Maybe they’re in the Witness Protection Program.

  Retrieving my notebook from my bag, I write all this down for future reference like a good reporter. My dad would be so proud.

  Still, I have a lot more questions churning in my brain. Why do
n’t the Lancasters have any records? Where did they really come from? And why did they move to Winter Haven?

  Total frustration? Check.

  Futile searching? Check.

  Super cranky, Sloane? Double check.

  Sighing, I lean back against the pillows and update my editorial “Fright Night Babble” on the Haven Gazette’s website. Not that I’m a gorehound. I only review psychological or horror movies, or chilling science fiction—no plotless slasher films, please—in my column.

  Next, I read the comments from my last post on clichés in scary movies. Yay! Three new ones. After answering a few questions about the article, I browse a few of my favorite review blogs, then I power off the laptop.

  Stretching, I get up and go downstairs to wait for the pizza.

  Even though I didn’t find much, I’m not going to give up. Feeling more determined than ever, I vow to discover the Lancaster’s deepest, darkest secrets. And who they might be hiding out from.

  FRIGHT NIGHT BABBLE

  Welcome, Snarklings!

  These overworked movie villain clichés make me want to vomit pea soup!

  One of the worst clichés is the invincible villain. Some of them have reasons (ghost killer, undead zombie guy, indestructible supernatural monster, etc.) but most of them don’t. Get real!

  And if I had a yellow cupcake for every time some evil baddie threw an ax or a knife so powerfully and accurately that it defies physics, I’d be a happy foodie. Ugh!

  Peace, love, and horror flicks,

  Zombie Queen aka Sloane

  FOUR

  When my last class ends, I stop at my locker to get my Trig textbook. The doors at the end of the hall bang open, releasing students for the day and letting in a gust of warm air. Several obtrusive fluorescent lights flicker overhead.

  Across the hallway and a few lockers over from mine are Zach and Hayden. An angry red spray-painted slash taints the metal door. Some jerk must’ve tagged Hayden’s locker again.