The Haunted House Project

by Tricia Clasen

  He may not be the dad that used to make me laugh every day, but I know I want him to be okay when I walk through the door.

  I pause inside the garage, but, finally, I take the plunge and step into the house. I drop my backpack on the floor and shut the door behind me. I hesitate, listening for sound. I take a few more steps and suddenly my nose is blasted with the best smell in the whole world.

  Spaghetti.

  I’m absolutely not kidding. Yeah, sure, I like chocolate chip cookies and brownies as much as everybody else, but the sound of boiling noodles and the smell of simmering sauce always makes everything better. Even on a day like today.

  It pulls me forward, and I run into the kitchen. My dad stands in front of the stove, stirring with a big green spoon.

  He smiles when he sees me. My skin tingles with hope, and I rock on my toes. I want to rush over and fall into his arms, but something stops me. It’s like this is a mirage. I can’t trust it.

  “Hey, Andie.”

  “Hi. What’s up?” I still don’t move.

  “Not much. I noticed we were low on food today, so I made a grocery run.”

  “Did you tell Paige? She’s going to be so relieved that …” I trail off when I realize I’m about to say that she’ll be able to give me some lunch money.

  His face falls and he rubs his right temple. I’m afraid I’ll lose him before I get him back.

  “No big deal. I’ll text her, okay?” He shrugs.

  “It’s early,” I say.

  “Huh?”

  “For spaghetti.” I move toward the cabinet that holds the strainers, pull one out, and place it in the sink before he responds.

  “Oh, well, I can’t stay long. I just thought you might be hungry.”

  Something in his tone feels weird. The whole thing feels weird. I turn around, my eyes narrowed. “What’s going on?”

  Instead of answering, he motions with his head for me to move as he walks over with the pot of noodles. I stare while he dumps the contents into the sink, steam rising instantly.

  I grab a couple of bowls and hold one out to him.

  He considers it for a second. “I’m not really hungry.”

  The disappointment must show on my face. I bet my shoulders slump or something, because he quickly changes his mind. “Maybe just a little.”

  I heap my bowl to the top.

  “You won’t have room for meatballs,” he says.

  “Meatballs? You made meatballs?” It’s Christmas and a birthday party rolled into one. Maybe even a new puppy and summer vacation.

  “You bet. I even splurged on the non-generic brand.”

  I giggle. It’s an ongoing joke in our house. Or it used to be. Mom always bought generic, unless Dad went shopping with her.

  I burn my tongue on my first bite, and I’ve stuffed my mouth so full of meatball that all I can do is open wide and fan it with my hand to cool it down.

  My dad laughs and pours me a glass of milk. He bought milk, too.

  “You really must be hungry,” he says, but as soon as it’s out his mouth, he stops laughing, and his eyes don’t smile anymore.

  “Really, what’s going on?” I ask again.

  He runs a hand through his dark brown hair. It’s longer now than it used to be. Mom always teased him and called him Paul McCartney when it got too long. Even though his bangs flop down a bit, I can see the past year in the lines at the corners of his deeply set eyes and the crinkles in his forehead. I don’t remember them being there before. He rests his elbow on the table and leans into it. “I got a call from a woman at the school. Apparently, there were some signs today that you didn’t have enough food.”

  I’ve just taken a huge bite. I’d wrapped like six pieces of spaghetti all around my fork and shoved the whole thing in at once, so I can’t answer him.

  “You know, I wish you wouldn’t talk to the school about stuff like this. You could just talk to me, you know.”

  My throat tightens and the food is stuck. I really wish Paige were here. I know she’d say something mean but honest, like, Sure, I’ll try that next time you’re passed out. I’d hate that she said it, but I wish I wasn’t scared to be as honest.

  “I didn’t.” And it’s not a lie. I didn’t really talk about the money and food stuff with anyone. Not on purpose anyway.

  “She said you meet with her sometimes.”

  I swallow my mouthful of spaghetti, and I fear that the next bite won’t taste as good. I don’t like where this is headed.

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you talk about?”

  Don’t blow this, I tell myself. I hear how hard he’s trying to control his voice. I don’t know what’s behind this, but I sense fear. Maybe anger, too.

  “Just, stuff, you know?”

  “No, I don’t know. What do you tell her?”

  “Nothing really. She just asks about how I’m feeling.”

  “What do you say?”

  “It depends, I guess. Today wasn’t a good day.”

  He sighs. And for a second his face melts. I watch the fear, the anger, the grief fall off layer by layer. He reaches out and grabs my hand. “I have a lot of those.”

  “I know,” I whisper.

  As fast as he thawed, he freezes again. “Do you talk about me with that woman?”

  My dad squeezes my hand while he says it. He might think he’s reassuring me, but it just feels like pressure. Crushing pressure.

  “No.” Yes.

  “That’s … good. Not that you shouldn’t talk about how you feel. It’s just that I know things haven’t been the best around here. People don’t always understand what it’s like for us, do they?”

  I shake my head.

  “Right, so it could get complicated if you talk about things like, you know, today and the groceries.”

  “But I didn’t—” I start to protest. But he pats my arm.

  “Let’s just keep our problems to ourselves, okay?”

  My leg shakes under the table. Paige’s voice echoes in my ears. Yes, I can see how that’s working out so well for you. My own voice stays silent as I nod my head.

  “You’re always such a good girl. So, listen, the fridge is stocked for a while, and there’s a new video game out there for you.” This is weird, because I don’t really play video games. He stands and starts to leave.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I, uh, I have to go. Out. I shouldn’t be too late.”

  Liar. “You could stay. Maybe we could play the game together?”

  He pretends to think about it for a second. “Soon. Okay?”

  “Sure.” Never.

  And he’s gone with a wave. I hear the garage door open and the car start. I let my fork fall.

  I leave my spaghetti sitting in the bowl. I can’t eat it right now. I’m mad. And I’m sad. It’s not fair, and it feels like I’ve jumped straight into a freezing pool of water. It’s so cold it burns. I will never get used to this. Will anything ever feel good again? Maybe I should just give up on him. It’s almost too hard to deal with the disappointment when what you hope for never comes true.

  I push my chair in. Super loud. I throw the stupid video game across the room. I yell at the top of my lungs and, when that doesn’t help, I punch the pillows on the couch. I slam shut the door to the laundry room, just because I happen to see it open. Finally, I’m beat. I’ve wasted every emotion on this awful day. I’m not sure what hurts more—that my dad was more worried about himself than finding out that I hadn’t had anything to eat today, or that he’s in there. I saw it. I felt it when he touched my hand. My dad is in there somewhere, and I didn’t know just how badly I wanted him back. All that time I worried about losing him too, and he was already gone.

  I collapse down on the couch, and I’m out.

  Chapter Five

  When I wake up, I jump, afraid I’m late for school. It takes a minute before I put together what happened. I glance at the clock on the DVD player. It’s six o’clock, so I�
�ve been out almost two hours. I feel groggy from my nap. I head to the kitchen and groan when I see the spaghetti mess. I put the leftovers in plastic containers, popping one meatball in my mouth as I clean the pots.

  I need to call my sister, but I’m on edge. I don’t want to be alone in this house right now. Isaiah’s question about ghosts echoes in my head. The only ghosts here seem to be Paige and Dad.

  I decide to visit Paige at the diner. It takes me about a half hour on foot, but I can use the fresh air, and it’s still light in the spring evenings. When she first started working there, my mom and I would stop in a lot on the weekends. Paige used to get so mad. “Why are you embarrassing me?” she’d ask my mom.

  “I’m just trying to give you good tips. Apple pie à la mode, please.”

  I have a usual. Hot fudge sundae with whipped cream, three cherries, and no nuts.

  When she sees me walk in, Paige waves me to a seat and heads immediately to the ice cream freezer. If it’s a slow night, and her manager isn’t paying attention, I eat for free. Otherwise, she drops money from her tips into the register.

  “Sorry about this morning again,” she says when she puts the sundae in front of me.

  “Dad bought groceries,” I say before popping the cherry in my mouth.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I guess the school counselor called him.”

  “Oh.”

  “He made me spaghetti.”

  She raises an eyebrow. I watch the flicker of hope in her eyes. “Where is he now?”

  “Out.”

  “Oh,” she says again.

  “He doesn’t want me to see Mrs. Carter.”

  “How did that come up?”

  “I guess someone called him today. I fell asleep in class, and then I kind of went off on some kid in group. And I might have mentioned not eating much.”

  Her eyes widen. “Ah.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Well, you know, sometimes if they think a parent can’t take care of their kid, they take them away.”

  “Take them away?”

  “Sure, they find a different home for them.”

  I’ve just taken a bite of whipped cream and I spit it out. “I didn’t know. Should I stop going to see her?”

  Paige takes a breath and then glances around the diner. “Do you like going?”

  “I don’t know. Yes. No. It depends. I don’t like group.”

  She laughs and turns around, grabs a pot of coffee, and does a quick loop around to the four or so customers in the place. Paige looks a lot like my mom—same nose for sure—and they’re the most alike, too. Both of them are stubborn and like to be in control. Paige can be emotional like Dad sometimes, but she’s mostly just like Mom. You’d think people who were so much alike would get along perfectly, but Dad says that’s why they fought so much. I’ve always been somewhere in the middle, I guess.

  When she gets back, she leans on the counter and gets her face close to mine. “You got it the worst, Andie Candy, so if you want to go talk to the shrink dink, you do it, okay?”

  She leans over and kisses me on the cheek.

  “Mrs. Carter says it isn’t a contest.”

  “Well, it’s sure not one you want to win, but you know, I’ve only got a few months before I can move out or go to college or something. And you’ve got to go through a lot of crap in the next few years without Mom.”

  “You, too.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And, I guess, so does Dad.”

  Paige’s mouth falls open a second. Then she swallows. “You’re too smart, you know that?”

  “Tell that to my math teacher.”

  And just like that, we’re laughing, and she’s telling me horror stories of the worst teachers she’s ever had. She wrinkles her nose when she talks about the one who used to clip his toenails during class. That’s something Mom always did when something grossed her out, too.

  For the second time today, I get a glimpse. I know that things can be different. Better. Never the same, but better than they are right now.

  I just don’t know how to get us there.

  I hang out the rest of the night with Paige. I try to figure out what might get my dad to try harder and what would make Paige smile more. I doodle on a place mat. I list things they like: movies, friends, cookies, concerts. But those are all temporary fixes. I could try to get them to go do something, but even if that made things better, it wouldn’t last. It would just be for a couple of hours. I want more normal. Closer to normal, anyway.

  I start drawing a face, and when I’m done, I realize I’ve sketched my mom. I look down at her. She was the glue, and without her, maybe we’ll never stick together again.

  But I don’t want to believe it. There must be a way to make things better.

  By the time I walk into science class the next day, I’m thoroughly discouraged again. I’ve considered things every which way, and no matter how I see it, only Mom can save us, and she’s gone. Isaiah plops down next to me, waving a bunch of papers.

  “Research!” he says. He’s bouncing up and down as usual, and his grin takes over his whole face.

  I can’t help laughing.

  “There’s so much cool stuff about ghosts.”

  I roll my eyes. “I bet you found a lot of funny stuff on the Internet.”

  “You would not believe the crazy. But I don’t even mean that. I mean the science. It’s awesome. People have analyzed the chemical makeup of antimatter and air quality and even sonic stuff. The theories are endless. So we’ve got to narrow in for sure. We can talk about whether or not ghosts are real, but there’s probably still too much information on that. I like physics the best, so I’d like to go that route.”

  “Physics?”

  “Sure, like motion and stuff? How ghosts move, how we sense their movement. Trajectories—stuff like that.”

  “There’s real research on this?”

  “Uh-huh. Tons. A lot of people are really into paranormal activity.”

  “Huh.” I guess I never thought about it much before. I like ghost stories, but I hadn’t really considered the work people might do to prove ghosts exist. Other than the crazy Ghostbusters types.

  “Why are you surprised? I don’t get it. Like you said yesterday, don’t you think a lot of people want ghosts to exist?”

  And it’s like fireworks explode in my head. I throw my hands up. “That’s it!”

  “What?”

  I stare at Isaiah for a second, not sure whether I should tell him. But in the end, he’s the only person I can tell.

  “Why do you think that most people want ghosts to be real?”

  He puts the tip of his pencil against his cheek. “Because they miss someone.”

  “Right. And why do they do things like Ouija boards and séances?”

  “So they can talk to the person they love.”

  “Uh-huh. They’re hoping for a message. A chance to know how things are … on the other side.”

  “Okaaay.” He drags out the word, not following what any of this has to do with the project. It doesn’t.

  “I think there’s something else, too. It’s not just that they want their loved ones to be okay. They want to be okay. They want to know that their loved ones still miss them. Still know about them.”

  “Is that—is that what you feel?”

  I shrug.

  “Is this something you want to study?”

  I shake my head. “No, this is something else. Something big. But it’s just between you and me, you understand? You can’t tell anyone.”

  We must be getting too loud, because our teacher comes over and stands beside us.

  “How’s the project going?”

  I have a moment of panic where I think we’re going to get in trouble, but Isaiah flips his notebook open and holds up a very detailed outline of ideas and research questions.

  “Great!” he says with a big fake smile. “We’re studying ghosts.”

  Mr. Sneed’s
eyes narrow and he looks at me. He raises an eyebrow, but then gives the paper a once-over. “This is … interesting. I think this could come together pretty well.”

  Satisfied, he moves over to another table.

  “Spill,” Isaiah says.

  “Wow, you’re good.”

  He waves a hand. He already knows that.

  “Isaiah, things at home aren’t so good.”

  “I kind of figured. What’s going on?”

  “We’re falling apart. My dad lost his job. And he goes out a lot. To the casino and bars, places like that.” I whisper the last part and wait for him to respond. Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything; he just nods very slowly. So I take a deep breath. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to make everyone normal again, but I think my mom is what kept us all together and right and everything. She managed us.”

  “Moms are kind of like that, huh?”

  I don’t want to tell him I think my mom was special. I’m sure he thinks his mom is too, but …

  “Anyway, I think maybe my mom is the only one who can save us.”

  His face twists up and he sets his pencil down on the table. “You’ve lost me.”

  “It’s your idea, and you don’t even know it: ghosts.”

  “Still lost.”

  “What if my mom came back? What if she haunted my family? Maybe they’d listen to her.”

  Isaiah’s mouth forms an O, and he leans back in his chair. He taps the pencil on his desk for a few seconds. I let him think, hoping it will all come to him like magic, and he’ll understand. Suddenly he starts to rifle through his papers. He lays out a blank one and pulls a printed article from the stack in his folder. “Here are some of the common things they say ghosts do. Sounds are the big one. Not just the typical stuff like creaking floorboards and groaning pipes, but music, and even voices. That seems doable, but maybe complicated.”

  When Isaiah looks up from his writing, now I am bouncing in my seat, and I would clap if it wouldn’t make me look like a total dork. He turns his head slowly to face me.