The Haunted House Project

by Tricia Clasen

  I’m relieved when Gisela suggests we watch a movie. Anything to end truth-or-dare. We make it an hour into Pitch Perfect before we attempt our own a cappella group, but we’re really bad. Well, I am anyway. Before I know it, we’re in the middle of a pillow fight. I laugh a lot, and for the rest of the night, I am a normal middle school kid. There is pizza and loud music and secret-telling, and, at least on the surface, all of our problems are put aside. For one night, I pretend I don’t have secrets from them. I pretend I’m not worried about anything but having fun. If Becki tosses any other digs in my direction, I don’t notice. Or maybe being together like this reminds us of how things used to be, and we all act a little more like we used to.

  For tonight, anyway, there are no ghosts.

  The next morning, I realize I forgot to tell anyone to pick me up. I try to call my sister, but she’s at work. I tap my foot as I try my dad’s number. He doesn’t answer. I leave a message for show, but when I hang up, I turn to Becki’s dad and lie.

  “I think he’s at work, too. I can walk. I don’t mind.” Her dad gives me a ride, but it smacks me back into reality. My mom would have picked me up. She wouldn’t have let me go without talking to Becki’s dad. Even then, she would have asked a lot of questions about what we would be doing. And she would have known what time to come get me.

  I know my dad still loves me. He’s just too lost to think about these things, and, really, it’s not something he ever did in the first place. He doesn’t even realize what’s missing.

  I let myself in and find the house empty. Since I don’t know when my dad might come back, I have to be cautious about my strategy. I sit down on the couch in the living room, in the spot where I sprayed the cushion—my mom’s spot. I need inspiration. I close my eyes and sink back into the seat. I let her scent hug me.

  “Mom, I haven’t talked to you in a while,” I say softly. I hope she can hear me wherever she is. “Things aren’t getting better, but you probably know that. I’m trying to do something here, and I’m not sure if it’s a good idea, but I don’t know what else to do. We all miss you so much. There are just so many things that you took care of and no one’s taking over. We try, but we can’t do it all, I guess. Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I’m thinking about you, in case you didn’t know.”

  I inhale one more time and pat the back of the couch as I stand. Okay, so who needs a message more? Paige, or my dad? I suppose my dad would be the obvious choice, but I think I’ve made more progress with Paige so far. And Paige tries so hard to keep everything together. She deserves a little hope.

  The other advantage is that I know she’ll be at work until four, so I’ve got time.

  Her room is spotless. It’s so weird that her world can be completely upside down, but everything in her room still has its place. I haven’t been in here for a while either. I guess we all keep to ourselves more these days. I can still remember all the times I used to sneak into her room to steal her toys or paper or whatever. She would stomp and scream and try to convince my parents that she should be allowed to have a lock on her door.

  Like I did the other day in my dad’s room, I take inventory.

  Only one item sits on top of her dark purple comforter—a stuffed pig that she won at the county fair when she was eight. It was a really big prize for an eight-year-old to win, and she was so proud of it. So it stays with her no matter how old she gets. I bet she’s won bigger prizes since, but they were never as special as Piggy.

  Paige has a small desk that sits in the corner by the window. Just like her bed, there’s not much clutter on it. A folder. An old plastic cup that holds pencils, pens, and highlighters. Above the desk, there’s a huge corkboard that is probably the messiest thing in the whole room. It’s jam-packed with all kind of pictures, old tickets, and postcards from places we’ve visited. There are also awards and ribbons, even an autograph from a Jonas brother—I don’t know which one—that she got at some local “meet and greet” that my mom took her to. They stood in line for four hours, and my mom said never again, but Paige couldn’t stop screaming and that made my mom laugh. I think my mom would have taken her a thousand more times. Paige obviously outgrew them, but she keeps just about everything that ever meant anything to her on that board.

  Her dresser towers above the desk on its left. My parents picked it up at a garage sale when Paige was little, and they painted it pink with polka dots for her nursery. When Paige was my age, she finally convinced them she had long outgrown polka dots and pink walls. That’s when the room was painted with the lilac and white stripes it has now. And they stripped the dresser and painted it white. The knobs became purple, to match the walls. The paint has chipped in a few places, revealing the old wood underneath.

  Paige’s jewelry box sits on top of the dresser. I know I shouldn’t open it. She would kill me if she knew I was in here, let alone about to go through her things, but I have to figure out something different to help push Paige a bit. I open the top of the box, but it’s pretty empty. My sister doesn’t wear much jewelry. There’s nothing with any meaning in here—just some earrings that probably came from Claire’s.

  I drop the lid shut and I wander toward her closet. I won’t go digging, but I just take a quick peek. Nothing jumps out at me. Her closet is actually smaller than mine, but her room is a little bigger. Plus, I have to store our suitcases on the top shelf in my closet.

  I back away from the closet and turn around slowly. I glance back at the bulletin board and then move over to it so I can see everything up close.

  It’s really become her scrapbook, only you can’t see about half of what’s up there because so much has been pinned to the board—there are layers and layers of items. I laugh at a picture of Paige’s right ear. I think that’s one of my mom’s shots from when she was into photography for about a minute and a half. Apparently Mom thought she could do something with the lighting or the angle to make it look artistic, but it’s just an ear. I lift up a sketch she must have done for art class—it has a big red A on it—and I see there’s another one underneath it. The one on top is a still life of some fruit, but underneath is the portrait of a young woman. It looks just enough like Paige to be a self-portrait, only the face is distorted. The neck is as narrow as a straw, and the head is shaped almost like a diamond, with huge, bulging eyes and a wide forehead. In tiny letters at the bottom of the page, I see Paige’s signature and a date. I flip back to the first sketch. Before. Before, there was normal, boring, expected still life. After, there was a messed up version of Paige with weird angles and nothing pretty. The teacher must not have understood the After, because above the distorted face, there’s a red C- with a circle around it.

  But I get it instantly. She feels like she’s choking. She can’t get enough air, but her head is so full it’s about to explode. I feel exactly the same way some days. Like I’ve been cut off from the rest of my body and am about to float away.

  As I lift the page corners, I catch a glimpse of another photo. I lift the drawings out of the way. Beneath them, a few pictures cluster together, held up by one yellow tack. I remove the tack carefully, pull out one of the snapshots, and slowly slide the tack back in place over the two remaining photos.

  I set the snapshot on the desk, sit down, and stare at it for a while. For a few minutes, I feel as if I’ve been transported into the moment the picture was taken. It’s from our vacation to California three years ago. The trip was full of ups and downs. It started out okay. We got to see a bunch of crazy stuff on Venice Beach, like a guy dressed up as the Easter Bunny, except instead of pants he had a tutu. My mom kept trying to get me to look away from the people who pretty much weren’t dressed at all, but I snuck a couple of glances in. We also drove down to the San Diego Zoo. Then my dad got sick. We never figured out whether it was food poisoning or the flu. It didn’t matter. For a whole day he was stuck in the hotel room—more like the hotel bathroom. But my mom was determined to keep the rest of us happy. She decided to take Paige a
nd me to Disneyland by herself. Dad wasn’t too interested in giant mice anymore anyway, and honestly, I’m not sure Paige was either. She sure didn’t seem happy to be there. She’d been kind of moody the whole trip, although it was nothing we weren’t used to.

  “My hair looks stupid” meant that we had to wait an extra half hour for her to get ready.

  “Ew, I’ll get fat” meant that we had to walk an extra four blocks to find frozen yogurt instead of ice cream.

  Stuff like that. The Disneyland day took the cake. Paige was all about showing off her teenage attitude. She snapped at mom about the littlest things. Nothing was right: The rides were dumb. The characters were for babies. My mom’s face grew tired. A couple of times she lost it and told Paige to suck it up, but overall she stayed pretty calm. I’m not sure whether it was for my sake or her own. Either way, I was having a pretty good time despite Paige. My mom said later that it was us still having fun that led to Paige’s tantrum. Yes, fourteen-year-olds can have tantrums. I hope I never do.

  Paige stomped her feet. She screamed that she wanted to go home. My mom stood her ground in the middle of the sidewalk, right near a character spot where Peter Pan was signing autographs. I felt eyes staring at us. Some glared. My mom laughed. “That was a good one, Paige. Now, Andie and I are going to ride Space Mountain. You can either join us, or you can wait on that bench over there. If you move from this spot, you will be grounded for the next month, and you’ll miss the final track meet.”

  That’s how Paige got all these ribbons on her corkboard. Paige used to love track. Of course, that was Before. She quit the team before the season got under way this year.

  Paige had plopped down on the bench and crossed her arms.

  My mom and I literally skipped all the way to the roller coaster. She tickled me and we laughed. The line took forever, but we told jokes and talked about what else we wanted to ride. I always liked roller coasters, no matter how scared other kids were; I loved how they made my stomach flip.

  By the time we got back, Paige appeared to have melted into the bench. We were still laughing when we got close. She stood up, sullen-faced.

  “How was it?”

  “Awesome!” I cried.

  We moved on to the Haunted Mansion, which was pretty dumb, and when we got out, Paige whispered, “I should have gone on Space Mountain.”

  I saw my mom raise an eyebrow, and she glanced over toward me. Then she turned back to Paige. “What was that?” I loved it when my mom made Paige sweat.

  “I should have come with you to Space Mountain. I’ve always wanted to ride that.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because you were being a brat?”

  Paige sighed. “I guess so.”

  “So what do you propose?” my mom asked.

  “Would you please ride it with me?” There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in Paige’s voice.

  “Are you prepared to actually have some fun?”

  Paige rolled her eyes, but she smiled at the same time. “It might hurt.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it will, but it only stings for a minute. Come on.”

  I didn’t really want to wait in another hour-long line, and I didn’t understand what had just happened.

  I didn’t say anything until we had been in line about ten minutes. “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “How come Paige gets to ride now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, didn’t she make a bad choice?” I was ten, and my parents were obsessed with making the best choices.

  My mom nodded slowly. “Yes, she did. But she realized her mistake and learned from it. You know, sometimes in life, we don’t get second chances. There aren’t always three strikes. But when it comes to me, you’ll always get another chance.” She wrapped her arm around Paige and kissed her on the cheek, causing Paige to shout “Ugh!” and rub the kiss off her face. But she was laughing the whole time.

  As I stare at the three of us barreling down a track in Space Mountain, my heart swells. My face is contorted in one of those this is awful/awesome expressions. My mom looks bored. But Paige wears the biggest smile, and her hands are high above her head.

  Yes, I think. This is a message. Careful not to be too obvious, I don’t put the picture smack dab in the middle of the board. I tack it just off to the right of center. I let one of Paige’s ribbons cover the top part of the picture on one side—it’s only my head, anyway. Then I step back from the board. I turn around and close my eyes. I slowly rotate back and open my eyes. It’s pretty subtle, but the picture is clearly visible now. I think she’ll see it.

  I hope she’ll get the message.

  Chapter Nine

  Back in my room, the quiet rings in my ears. I pick up the ghost story I’ve been reading—I had hoped it might give me some inspiration. I read about ten pages, but I can’t get into it. In the story, a girl’s dog comes back as a ghost who can talk. The ghost dog takes on all the bullies who made the girl’s life miserable. The girl squeals and jumps for joy every time one of the bullies runs screaming from a room or gets in trouble for claiming he saw a ghost. I try going under my bedspread and using the flashlight to read, hoping it’ll make the story more exciting, like when I used to read them just for fun, but it doesn’t help. I don’t know. Maybe I won’t be able to enjoy cheesy, unrealistic ghost stories anymore. Or maybe I’m just jealous.

  I’d be happy to have my mom back in any form. She doesn’t have to be a dog, even. She could be a rat, and I’d let my ghost rat follow me around. She wouldn’t have to defend me or scare people with her beady red eyes. She’d just have to hang out and whisper words of encouragement sometimes.

  In any case, in addition to being boring, this story doesn’t give me any ideas for my project. I put the book down and rub my eyes. I haven’t even been home two hours, and I’m already sick of being by myself. I figure I might as well attempt to work on our science project. I can’t let Isaiah do everything, even if he’d probably prefer that I did. Besides, I’m curious. I want to learn more about the science of ghosts.

  I skim the articles he’s printed out, but they’re so hard to follow, probably written by actual researchers who use words only other actual researchers can understand. I read the same sentence about five times before I give up. I decide to try another approach and carry my folder to my computer. I open up the web browser and type in “electromagnetic” and “ghost.” A few of the articles had “electromagnetic” in the title, so I figure it must be important. The first hit is a Wikipedia entry that’s mostly about ghost hunting. I gather this theory—that ghosts are made up of electromagnetic energy—is one of the most popular among the real ghost believers. They can use all kinds of strange equipment to measure paranormal activity. It’s their “proof,” so to speak. I already know a little about this from watching the ghost-hunting shows on television.

  I keep reading, digging more into this theory. It turns out energy really is the base of most of the research about ghosts. I can’t believe I’m studying thermodynamics on a Saturday. Just like with Isaiah’s research papers, I barely understand what I’m reading. But Wikipedia makes some of it easier to figure out. The first law of thermodynamics: Energy is neither created nor destroyed; it just changes form.

  I scratch my head, but if I’m understanding it right, I kind of like this theory. I can see why the wackos do, too. It actually makes sense in a way, at least what sense I can make of it. I read about how ghosts can actually use human energy sources, like draining a lightbulb. That could be interesting. That is, if either my sister or my dad had a clue that this theory existed. I could replace a live bulb every day with a dead one to make them think my mom was sucking the energy out of the room, but I don’t think either of them would pick up on that message.

  I get sidetracked from the science research as I read. I keep coming back to my other project.

  I lose an hour exploring the five forms ghosts can
be “seen” in: orb, vortex, ghost-light, ectoplasm, and apparition.

  I try to figure out if there’s any way to use this in my hauntings, but again, it’s not really what I’m going for. I don’t want my family to actually go crazier than they already are. I’m doing this to make them normal again. Seeing a ghost could definitely have the opposite effect.

  It’s getting late, and my eyes are blurring, so I stretch and head downstairs to see about dinner.

  My sister sends a text saying she’s bringing home food. She does that sometimes if someone had a bad order or a mistake was made, or sometimes the cooks are just nice and make extra. I hear the garage door and jump. It must be my dad. I wasn’t planning to add any more “signs” to the house, but at the last second, I turn on the TV and flip through a few channels until I come across one that feels right. I’m smiling as I turn it off again and place the remote back exactly where I found it.

  When I see my dad, my smile fades. His eyes are bloodshot, and he stumbles a little.

  “Hey there,” he says.

  “Hey,” I reply. “Where have you been?”

  “Oh, you know, around.”

  “All day?”

  I’m not sure why I’m pushing buttons. I kind of like to think it’s something Mom would have done, though Paige is better at this than I am.

  He reacts in slow motion. His eyes open wide as he appears to take in what I’ve said. He reaches a hand up and scratches his cheek.

  “I had things to do, Andie.”

  “I bet,” I say. And I turn to walk away. “By the way, Paige is bringing home food. You should eat it. It might help.”

  I don’t know what I expect. Maybe I think he’ll run after me or yell at me. I’m sort of disappointed when neither of those things happen.

  My stomach grumbles as I walk away. Please get home soon, I beg Paige, even though she can’t hear me. I need the food, but more than that, I need the buffer.