The Ghost Files (The Ghost Files - Book 1)

by Apryl Baker

  “You’re okay, though, right?”

  “I guess,” I say. “They can’t figure out why my head exploded in pain and I blacked out.” I’d sure like to know that answer myself. How did the ghost make me bleed? Scares the bejeezus out of me just thinking about it.

  My yawn makes Jake laugh. “Get some sleep, Matts. I’ll come by later.” He stands and gives me a quick kiss.

  Once Jake’s gone, I settle back and hope that Officer Dan can figure out what I tried to tell him. If he doesn’t believe me, then I’m stuck dealing with ghosts and trying to figure it out on my own. I so don’t want to do that.

  But what else can I do?

  Chapter Eight

  Three days after my chat with Officer Dan, the hospital staff still had no idea what caused my massive brain blow-out. So, they let out with strict instructions I was to come straight back if I had any more symptoms. As if! I hate, hate, hate, hospitals! Though to be fair, I’d only seen one real ghost while I was there this time. I still don’t know why they all stayed away, but I did say a prayer of thanks for the reprieve. My old Sunday school teacher used to say that God only gives us what we can bear, and there was no way I could bear another ghost after Mirror Boy. Little miracles I’ll take any day of the week.

  It’s raining. It fits my mood. Mrs. Olson is singing along to Keith Urban on the radio. Her voice isn’t half bad, but I can’t really concentrate on it. No one will tell me anything about Sally, except that her case is being “investigated.” Bah. I even broke down and tried to call Officer Dan. Me, actually call the cops for once? Well, yeah, who knew? I got his voicemail at the police station both times. I stopped calling after the third try. I guess he can’t bring himself to believe me. I know I sounded crazy, but I had hoped Officer Dan would come around. Oh, well. I’ll figure it out on my own. I always do. I’ve never needed anyone before and I don’t need them now. I’m a tough, resourceful cookie.

  Well, tough is maybe a stretch, especially at this particular moment. We have just pulled into the driveway. All I can think about is Mirror Boy. He can hurt me. My heartbeat accelerates and my breath swooshes out of my lungs. Calm down, I tell myself forcefully. Gotta hold it together or Mrs. Olson will turn around and take you right back to the flippin’ hospital.

  That hospital stuff I can’t have. I need to move freely to investigate. Mirror Boy will just to have to deal if I see him again. I will find Sally and if that means finding Mirror Boy and disrupting his little reign of terror, so be it. I refuse to be afraid of a stinking ghost. No way am I gonna get bullied by anyone or anything – especially by ghosts.

  “Mattie, you okay?”

  Mrs. Olson is eyeballing me with concern. I haven’t moved to get out of the car. “All good, Mrs. O,” I smile weakly at her. “Just tired.” Taking a deep breath, I open the door and force myself out. I am not afraid, I chant over and over.

  The other kids are still at school, so the house is pretty empty. Mrs. O had told me earlier we had a new foster kid in the house, but I’m betting he’s at school too. She sends me upstairs with the promise to bring me a sandwich and a glass of milk. The doctors said no caffeine for a while, so my favorite drink in the world, Coke, is off limits. At least until I can escape and get to a gas station. I need it like an addict needs crack.

  My room is exactly as I left it, the bed turned down and my clothes thrown into a corner. A simple white dresser and mirror, desk, and a twin bed covered in my worn out quilt decorate the room. My desk, made of black metal, is the only thing of color in the whole stark-white space, really. Mr. Olson gave it to me when I’d asked if I could use it for a desk. It’s a work table more than a desk. The floor is a dingy gray carpet; nothing special, but the place is clean, to include bare walls. After all, I never stay anywhere too long. There’s no point in cluttering them up with posters of bands and the latest teen hotties. I’d only have to pack them again in a few weeks anyway.

  My eyes travel to the slightly dark spot on the carpet. They’re blood stains – mine. No matter how much she cleans, I don’t think Mrs. O will get them out. Not that they are all that obvious; it’s just a dark spot on the carpet. Only I know what the spot is, but doubt anyone else would. Unfortunately, that means my room doesn’t feel like the safe place it once did, and that’s just not fair. I need my safe haven back. There’s only one way to get it back and that’s to figure out where Sally is. That means facing my gift, my curse. I can’t run from it anymore.

  First order of business, figure out just what Mirror Boy did to me. I turn on my laptop and wait for it to boot up, trying to stop myself from looking at the carpet. Stop that. It’s a reminder of my terror and I’ve got to get past it, but I can’t stop my heart from racing. Flippin’ ghosts! Maybe I will put a rug or something over it. If I can’t see it, maybe I won’t obsess. Right.

  My laptop sings to me when the logon screen pops up. Last time I turned on my baby, Mirror Boy showed up. His face keeps flashing in front of my eyes so I close them and slowly count to one hundred. It’s a technique I learned in therapy – and the only valuable thing I got out of all those sessions. It actually works to calm me down.

  Mrs. O comes in and sets my food on the desk next to my laptop. She tells me to come get her if I feel at all ill and then leaves me to my own devices. My mouth waters at the sight of the food. Ham, cheese, and BACON. It’s that pre-cooked stuff, but hey, bacon in any shape or form makes everything taste better. Just ask anyone on Top Chef. I can eat my weight in bacon.

  I Google “can ghosts hurt people?” and get back over one thousand hits. Ouch, too many to sort through. Let’s try it a different way. I type “can ghosts cause physical pain in people?” and see several potentially useful sites on the first page that comes up.

  As I eat my heavenly sandwich, I start reading. Some are just hogwash, drivel not even worth the amount of cyberspace used to house them. One site does catch my attention. It’s the site of the famous ghost hunter, Dr. Lawrence Olivet. He has his own TV show and he also does an online podcast as well. His site houses a wealth of information about anything you can ever want to know about ghosts. He also lists several other sites to check out for additional information. I bookmark his page and settle in for a long read.

  Uh-huh. So ghosts can only hurt you if they are strong enough. Well, okay. The little buggers gain strength from feeding off the energy of the living? Hmm. They drain your energy much like a vampire does blood to survive – Oh, that is just wrong on so many levels. It causes the people they attach themselves to become tired and lethargic, or if they are feeding from an entire household, the symptoms aren’t as obvious, but the household can become argumentative and snippy with each other. This feeds the ghost as well, especially one that has a cause to be angry, like one who was murdered maybe? Yeah, Mirror Boy is one angry little ghostie. So… definitely not Casper the Friendly Ghost then.

  This doc might have something. I really need to chat with Dr. Olivet, so I do what I do best – I lie. The email says that I’m an aspiring young adult author who wants to get her facts straight about ghosts and can he offer some technical advice? Maybe he’ll get back to me and maybe he won’t. But then again… I could have just told him I thought I’d seen a ghost, but I’m betting he gets those emails all the time. Oh, well. Probably he wouldn’t get back to me for a good long while, if ever. Fudging the truth, one professional to another, might get me faster results.

  My back aches and the neck is stiff from sitting hunched over the computer for so long. I need to get out of this room for a while anyway. It’s a bit creepy now. Maybe I’ll scour Sally’s room for clues. Doubt that I’ll find anything, but who knows? It’s worth a shot. The police were pretty much useless when it came to that, so hopefully, I can find something. Or maybe I’ll go for a walk. There’s a park just down the street.

  I push up and stretch. The hospital stay didn’t help much; my muscles are sore. Yes, a good walk will do me good, I decide. Grabbing my sketchpad and a charcoal pencil, I turn a
round and come face to face with a bloody mess.

  Oh, no. I scramble back, my legs hitting the bed and I fall backward, barely containing my screams. “Mary?”

  Dear God, it is. Her eyes are still blindfolded, but what I can see of her face tells me a story I don’t want to read. Her face is swollen, her lip busted in several places. I can see the shallow cuts of a knife all over her arms and chest. Her shirt has been torn so that whoever did this had access to the soft flesh underneath. They’ve carved her up. Blood drips down her arms and falls onto the carpet. Bile rises in my throat at the sight. Her hands hang limply at her sides, but I can see the swollen fingers, fingers that are bent at odd angles. Someone has broken them, not just one or two, but all of them on both hands. How is this possible? She’s dead, so how is she showing up with new wounds that weren’t there before?

  “Please, please, help me.” She’s crying, voice ragged and rough, like it would be if she’d been screaming for countless hours. “I just want to go home.”

  “I swear Mary, I’m trying,” I whisper. I’d told Officer Dan about her, given him clues. Why didn’t he follow up on it? Because he thinks I’m crazy. He’s going to have to do something, dang it! If Mary really is still alive, we have to find her. This guy is slowly killing her. Who knows how much longer she can last? Or how long before he gets tired of his game and just offs her?

  “It hurts so much,” she whispers. “I’m scared. I think…I think he has a gun. I keep hearing a click, click, click that sounds like my Uncle Steve’s gun.”

  A gun? Can it be the same person that killed Sally? Why would he just shoot Sally and then turn around and torture Mary? That makes no sense. No, what really makes no sense is the fact that Mary is here and I can see her, but I’m pretty sure she’s not dead.

  “Ohgodohgodohgod,” she whispers. “I hear him coming back…”

  “Mary, stay here, stay with me!” I jump up. “Can you tell me anything about him? Does he talk to you?”

  “He never talks,” she says. I can see her jerk at her arms, like she’s trying to free herself. I remember her saying that she was sitting up, but she couldn’t move. Maybe she’s tied down to a chair?

  “Please stop,” she begs. “Please don’t….” She screams and I cringe. Tears gather in my own eyes as she screams. She’s terrified. Whatever he’s doing to her hurts. “Please, please, please, no more!”

  “Mary, I swear to God, I’m going to find you.”

  “NO, DON”T!!!!!”

  Pain hits hard and fast. I fall hard, doubling over as my stomach explodes in white-hot pain. Not again, not again. I’d felt what happened to Mirror Boy and I can’t do it again, but it doesn’t stop. He’s either kicking her or using his fist, but either way, I can feel it. Every blow she takes, I take. I crawl to the bed and manage to drag myself up onto it. All I can do is lay there. I can’t stop the pain or block out Mary’s screams.

  The room gets cold; the lights flicker once, twice, and then go out. My blinds are closed and the curtains pulled so there is no light at all in the room.

  Please, please, please don’t be Mirror Boy.

  Oh, crap. It’s something worse.

  “Shhhh….”

  Chapter Nine

  Hot, rancid breath assaults my nostrils. I panic. I don’t remember hearing the door open, but there is someone in my room. His weight settles on the bed, and I try to turn over, but then a sharp pain lances my side. I gasp at the force of the blow to my stomach and for a second I can’t tell if the person on the bed hit me or if it’s Mary getting hit. A feeling of helplessness overwhelms me. I want to just give up, to beg for death in that moment. Mary, its Mary that wants to give up. She’s in so much pain. She’s been hurt so badly, she wants to die.

  “So pretty,” he whispers and big beefy hands start to stroke my hair. My own reality leaks back in with the touch of those hands on me. The thought of getting raped on my own bed snaps whatever bond I share with Mary. Her pain goes away and my head clears. The helplessness vanishes and my fighting instincts kick in. Oh, no you don’t you freak! I roll, pull my legs up and in, then hit him squarely in the chest with both feet, all the while screaming at the top of my lungs. He falls backward and hits the floor. I jump to the other side, so that the bed is between us. The only weapon I can grab is the bedside lamp. Not much, but it’ll do.

  My door bursts open to reveal Officer Dan and Mrs. O.

  “Mattie?” Mrs. Olson stares at me, alarmed. Then her eyes fall on my attacker in the floor. “Stevie?”

  Stevie?

  “Stevie, are you okay?” Mrs. Olson actually bends down and helps him up. What?

  “Him?” I shout. “He’s the one who attacked me!”

  “Attacked you? What are you talking about, Mattie? Stevie wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “Really? Then why did he just attack me?”

  “Everybody, let’s just calm down,” Officer Dan says. “Mattie, what happened?”

  “This, this person came into my room and attacked me!”

  “I just wanted to help,” Stevie piped in. “You were crying.”

  “Help me?” I shriek. “You were touching me! Nobody touches me!”

  “Pretty hair.” Stevie smiles at me. That’s when I get a good look at him and I understand why Mrs. Olson is not reacting the way I am. Stevie has Down syndrome. I calm down, but only slightly.

  “Stevie, honey, go on to your room now.” When he shuffles out, she turns to me. “Mattie, that boy doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. I’m sure he wasn’t trying to hurt you. He’s special.”

  “I can see that, Mrs. O. Anyone who looks at him knows that, but it doesn’t give him the right to come into my room and TOUCH me! He comes near me again, and I swear he won’t walk away with hands attached.”

  “Of course it doesn’t, honey,” Mrs. Olson soothes. “I’m sure he was only trying to help. Why were you crying?”

  “I wasn’t,” I deny. “I never cry.” It had been more whimpering, definitely not crying. I’m a tough girl, crying isn’t in my genetic makeup. Usually.

  Mrs. Olson sighs heavily and I interrupt before she can try to expound upon the whole tears issues. I turn my attention to Officer Dan.

  “Just what are you doing here, Officer Dan?” The sarcasm drips heavily. I’m still pissed at him.

  “I know we already did a follow up interview on Sally, but I wanted to come by to check on you,” he says and eyes me nervously. He’d better be nervous, the jerk.

  “You have time to come and check on me but not return my calls?”

  “Mrs. Olson, may I talk to Mattie for a few minutes alone?” Officer Dan asks and gives her those warm friendly eyes. She smiles.

  “Of course. I’ll go make us all some lunch.”

  “Thanks,” he says and closes the door behind her.

  I eye the closed door with disbelief. Huh. Does she think just because he’s a cop he can be trusted? No way would she let any other guy close the door. Trust me, I’ve tried. She’s like a hawk circling the field watching for the mouse to pop up whenever Jake comes over. Last time I tried closing the door, she lectured me for an hour. Irritating as it had been, it’d still been kind of nice. No one’s ever cared enough before to lecture me on my virtue.

  Still, just because he has a badge doesn’t make him trustworthy. No wonder there’s so much police corruption. Everyone thinks they’re infallible. They’re the police right? Protect and serve. Hah. Protect and serve themselves. Granted, the bulk of police aren’t crooked, but there are more than a few who are and I’ve met my fair share of them.

  Come to think of it, Officer Dan is the least cop-like cop I’ve ever met. He doesn’t react like one and he doesn’t sound like one either. He has the whole deadpan face down, but I think he more or less mastered that before he became a cop. I can do the same thing. Dealing with social workers taught me to show no emotion when necessary. Sometimes they just shut up when you do that and you can ride to the new foster home in peace and quiet
.

  “Look, Mattie, I know you’re mad…”

  “Mad?” I laugh. Yup, very non-cop-ish. “Question for you, Officer Dan. Just how long have you been a cop?”

  He goes from nervous to extremely nervous. “Why does that matter?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Technically, eight weeks.”

  “Technically?”

  “Six weeks at the academy and two weeks on the job.”

  Great, just great. He’s a rookie. No wonder he didn’t seem like a cop to me the last time I’d met him. I’d trusted him because he’d sounded more like me than a real cop. Kids identify with kids and even though he has the title “adult” attached to him, he’s still pretty much a kid at the ripe old age of twenty. It has nothing to do with his eyes, I tell myself. I must have been pretty drugged to imagine his eyes made me trust him. Not that I trust him anymore mind you, he did blow me off.

  “Well, that explains a lot.” I put my lamp back down and then fall down on the bed.

  “Hey, I’m the only one who’s listening to you!” he says defensively.

  “Really, Officer Dan? I left you like three voice mails and you never once called me back!”

  He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Yeah, about that, I’m sorry.”

  So totally a teenage boy’s answer. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

  “Look, Mattie, it was a lot to take in, okay? It took me a while to believe it, or at least believe you believe it.”

  “So you think I’m crazy now do you?” I laugh. Sometimes I think I’m crazy so I can’t fault him for thinking the same thing. Not that I’ll tell him that of course.

  “No, you’re not crazy Mattie. Can I sit?”

  “Whatever.”

  He rolls his eyes at me and then takes a seat on the foot of the bed, tucking his feet under him to mirror me. “Wanna talk about what just happened?”