The Haunted House Project

by Tricia Clasen

  I don’t get far before my dad catches up to me after all.

  “Did you come home last night?”

  “No, I had a sleepover at Becki’s.”

  “You didn’t tell me.”

  “I told Paige.”

  “Paige isn’t your parent.”

  I try to swallow the bitter words, but they won’t go down. “She might as well be.”

  His face crumples and he shuffles away. I hear him in the kitchen. It’s times like this I get so confused. I can tell he knows what he’s doing is wrong, but he doesn’t change anything. I think he wants to. Otherwise, why would he be making coffee at five in the afternoon? I can smell it as it begins to brew.

  I splash some cold water on my face and pick up my room a little until I hear Paige’s feet pound on the stairs.

  “Hungry?” she calls out from her room.

  “Starving.”

  “I’m changing, but the food’s on the table. Club sandwiches and pasta salad.”

  My belly flips in excitement.

  My dad is a different man sitting at the table. His face still drags, but his eyes are brighter. He picks at some of the salad. It’s the first I’ve seen him eat in a while. It shows in the deep hollows of his cheeks.

  I grab a plate from the cabinet and then pause. Do I pile the plate up and head somewhere else to eat, or do I brave sitting at the table, given the fight we were about to have?

  He answers for me, kicking at a chair with his foot as if to tell me to sit down. I slide in and dig into the three layers of sandwich so I don’t have to talk. If it’s a big enough bite, maybe I’ll still be chewing when he’s done stabbing his salad.

  My sister trudges into the room. Her expression is tough to read. Her voice had been light just a minute ago, but now it weighs more somehow. “Is it okay?” she asks, pointing toward my sandwich.

  I nod, and my dad mumbles, “Great, thanks.”

  “The pasta salad had to be tossed by tomorrow, and no one else claimed it. I love this stuff.” She heaps spoonfuls into a bowl. “How was the sleepover, Andie?”

  “Good,” I say. “Same as always.”

  She hasn’t made eye contact with my dad yet.

  “What time did you get home?” she asks me.

  “Around noon.”

  “Were you here?” Paige stares at Dad, who just shakes his head.

  “What did you do, then?”

  “Homework. I’ve got a big science project coming up.”

  Out of nowhere my dad asks, “Did you watch TV today?”

  I steady my voice even though my heart is beating at the back of my throat. I’d never heard him turn it on.

  “No, I was upstairs on my computer.”

  He takes a swig of coffee and then glances at my sister. “How about you?”

  “I’ve been gone since seven thirty.”

  He nods and taps the table with his fingers.

  A long, awkward moment follows. It feels as if the room has been put on pause.

  It’s Paige who pops the silence like a balloon. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Mom lately.”

  Just lately? I think. But she keeps going.

  “I mean, obviously I’m always thinking about her, but lately I’ve been wondering what she’d think if she could see us now.”

  What if she can? I wonder. Laws of thermodynamics do a jig in my head.

  We all know the answer to Paige’s question, but no one wants to say it out loud. No one wants to admit that we’re not exactly living life to the fullest.

  Dad clears his throat and stops tapping. “You wanna watch a movie or something tonight?”

  My eyes shift back and forth between him and Paige while my knee shakes under the table.

  “Sure,” she says slowly. “I don’t have any plans.”

  I smile, but it’s one of those no-teeth ones because I recognize the statement for what it is—an admission that things are wrong. Paige always used to have plans on a Saturday night. Mom would have noticed it, too. Either Dad doesn’t or, like me, he chooses to ignore it because he has no idea what to say.

  “Can we go to the store and get popcorn and Twizzlers?”

  My dad reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. “Sure, Candy. Just let me hop in the shower.”

  After Dad heads upstairs, Paige and I clean up the kitchen. I feel like singing, but I suppose that would be too much, so I hum instead.

  “Andie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you ever wonder if Mom is trying to talk to you?”

  I grip the plate I’m holding so hard I’m worried I might break it.

  Chapter Ten

  After she asks the question, Paige’s cheeks grow red.

  “Um, well, I don’t know. Why?”

  “You … just … you’re so into ghosts and stuff. I wondered if you thought she might still be around.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in all that.”

  “I know. I mean, I don’t. I just … I don’t know.” She doesn’t usually sound so tentative.

  “Have you seen anything?”

  “Oh, it’s probably nothing. But I keep thinking I smell her, or things that remind me of her, and today I swear something in my room moved.”

  “What was it?”

  “Nothing, really; just a picture.”

  “Huh, that’s weird.”

  “I’m probably just imagining things.”

  “Maybe not. You know my science project?”

  She nods.

  “We’re actually studying ghosts. There are a lot of people who think it’s possible, and there are tons of theories about the hows and whys of it all.”

  “Do you buy into it? Do you actually believe it?”

  I shrug. “I’m not sure. I don’t really believe the crazy stuff and the scary haunting stuff like in those books I read, but the idea that the energy doesn’t go away is kind of interesting to me.”

  Paige nods, but she doesn’t say anything. Neither of us do for a while. I’m trying to figure out what else to say or what not to say.

  She stares at her hands and whispers, “I hate him a little.”

  “It’s hard not to.”

  Paige sighs. “But he just has a broken heart.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s just that he’s supposed to be the one who knows how to fix mine.”

  “I know,” I say again.

  It’s quiet for a while as we finish putting everything away. I think about the rings. I know I can’t mention my dad’s room. She would guess that I’d been in her room, too. But I’m so curious. I really want to be able to talk to Paige about this.

  “Do you know what happened to all of her stuff?”

  “What stuff?”

  “I don’t know. Jewelry and personal things. It just feels like everything disappeared.”

  Paige tilts her head to the side. “Well, I think they buried her with some of it.”

  “Her wedding rings?”

  “She was wearing them at the wake.”

  I nod. “I just wasn’t sure if they took them off before they closed it.”

  She shakes her head. “Got me. I think you’d have to ask Dad about anything like that.”

  Things are quiet on the ride to the store. We aren’t used to talking to one another anymore. Even small talk feels dangerous. I can’t just say “How’s the job hunt, Dad?” or “Do you think you could stay home more often?” We can’t ask Paige about track anymore or about her friends or what she does for fun. I should have known that meant attention would shift to me.

  “So, anything new in school, Andie?” Dad asks.

  “Not really. I still hate math.”

  They both laugh. Paige turns around from the front seat. “I forgot to tell you. Your science partner came into the diner yesterday.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, his mom left a big tip.”

  “That’s good.”

  “He’s nicer than you made him sound.”

&
nbsp; “What did I say?” I ask, a little sad that I might have made Isaiah look bad.

  “Just how you were worried about being paired with the geeky kid.”

  My dad interjects, “Andie, that doesn’t sound like you.”

  I bite my tongue so I don’t say “How would you know?”

  “I like Isaiah. He’s okay. It’s just that my friends don’t.”

  “That’s tough,” Paige says.

  I’m really surprised when my dad agrees. “Sometimes it’s hard to deal with what your friends think. Especially at your age. I wasn’t very good at it. I could probably still use some work on that.”

  “So, any advice?” I look out the window and watch the houses pass me by. The colors blur together.

  “I guess just do the right thing.”

  “How do I know if it’s right?”

  “I think it pretty much comes down to this: listen to your gut. If doing what your friends want makes you feel like you’re going to puke, it’s probably the wrong thing.”

  “What if what makes me want to puke is ending up without any friends at all?”

  They both go quiet. And, without either of them responding, I know I’ve hit a nerve. It suddenly occurs to me that they’ve both lost so many friends in the past few months that they might understand what I’m talking about.

  When we get to the store, I find the microwave popcorn and some Twizzlers, and Paige chooses a big box of Whoppers. Dad even throws in a big bottle of Coke.

  Back at the house, I toss a bag of popcorn in the microwave while Dad loads a movie into the DVD player. It’s some classic sci-fi action flick thing. My dad insists it’s the best of its genre and that we’re in for a fantastic night. He can’t believe we haven’t already seen it. I whine a little but I don’t care enough to protest much. I’m just glad we’re all going to watch it together. I pour three glasses of Coke and Paige throws in a few ice cubes, then we carry everything out to the living room. Paige passes right by the couch. It’s pretty clear she’s avoiding it. Instead, she picks the hard chair that no one likes, opposite Dad’s recliner. My dad eyes me on the couch. Instead of sitting in his usual spot on the recliner, this time he plops down next to me.

  We only get about halfway through the movie before it starts skipping. By then I’ve noticed my dad is completely distracted by the smell of the couch. I sigh when the DVD finally stops working altogether.

  “Want to switch it out for something else?” my dad asks.

  My sister mumbles a meh.

  “Whatever,” I say. The moment is gone.

  My dad mimics my sister’s actions from the other night. He takes a long sniff of the air before getting up from the couch and heading to the kitchen. I hear a cupboard open and a glass clink against another, then the crack of ice. I listen carefully, hoping to hear water running; instead I hear the unmistakable sound of him grabbing a bottle from the top of the fridge. It’s easy to recognize because the bottles hitting against each other make the kind of music that won’t help you fall asleep at night.

  Paige rolls her eyes and stands. “Well, that’s that. I might as well go to bed early.”

  It’s only eight, so I know she’s not really going to sleep—she’s escaping. I do the same.

  Once I get to my room, though, I’m so bored I want to be anywhere but here. I try to read. I start obsessing. There must be more of my mom’s things in this house. If my dad kept her rings, he probably kept some other things, too. While I’m considering where he would keep any of her things, I go back over the research from earlier. I even fill in the chart that Isaiah gave me. For a few minutes, I think about calling him. He wrote his number on top of the sheet. I even pick up my phone and run my fingers over the numbers. It would be so easy. I punch the numbers in, but I don’t press SEND.

  By nine, I’m wishing I had school the next day. How am I going to fill another day of this? I am so antsy that there’s no way I’m going to be able to fall asleep right now. I give up trying, and decide to sneak downstairs. Maybe I can still attack those Whoppers. Paige barely touched them. Chocolate will help, right?

  I grab the carton from the coffee table, and I wonder if my dad went to bed. I wander in the kitchen and see the empty glass in the sink. I open the garage door, and sure enough, his car is gone. I’m surprised I didn’t hear him leave.

  When I shut the door and turn around, I nearly run into the door to the basement, which somebody has left open. Ideas bang around in my head like a pinball machine.

  Chapter Eleven

  I turn on the basement light and then shut the door behind me. I go down the stairs slowly, almost afraid of what I might find at the bottom. The old rec room looks sad and lonely. We never really used it as a family room, but we used to have sleepovers down here, and for a long time it was also my toy room. It’s still not “finished.” It’s just painted cement walls, a large carpet remnant, and a brown plaid couch my parents bought at a garage sale when they first got married. The couch smells as old as it looks. There isn’t much else in here, so I pass through the large room and end up in the even more unfinished part of the basement.

  When my parents bought the house, they always envisioned doing the basement up with nicer walls and ceilings and stuff, but at first they didn’t have money and then they found out the basement leaks every time it rains. Even now the smell of must and mildew makes me gag. That’s why everything stored down here is on shelves or in plastic bins. Nothing touches the ground or it gets ruined. They gave up redecorating after they got a quote for how much it would cost to fix the leaking.

  I have no idea where to begin. It would help if any of the boxes were labeled. That’s something my mom always said she’d work on, but it fell to the bottom of the list every year. I don’t have a clue what’s in most of these. I’m sure some of it’s old baby clothes and stuffed animals. About five of the big plastic tubs are all the same size and shape. I open a lid and immediately see yellow baby blankets. They’re bunched up and crammed into the box.

  I let my eyes scan each row. There are a couple of red and green bins, and I think those might be Christmas decorations. Since they’re on the top shelf, I don’t check them. I start with the boxes on the lower shelves, cracking open each lid, mostly finding toys and games and other holiday stuff. One box is filled with a bunch of papers and artwork from when Paige was little.

  All of this stuff has been here forever. Maybe this is a waste of time.

  I stop what I’m doing and study the top shelves again, and finally something stands out. I see a hint of lettering on the side of one of the cardboard boxes. I can only see a couple of letters—NE—but they make my stomach flip. My mom’s name is Diane, and the handwriting is very clearly my dad’s large scrawling letters.

  I take a step back and then turn and look for the small ladder we keep down here. It’s tucked in behind the furnace, so I pull it out and put it right in front of the shelf with the box. I climb up a few steps and just get my fingers around the bottom of the box. I scoot it out toward the edge. I can tell already that it’s pretty heavy, and I’m scared I’m going to drop it and all the contents will spill on the concrete floor. Worse yet, something will break, or my sister will come running because of the noise and I’ll be busted.

  I manage to get the box off the shelf and I grunt as I balance it on the top of the ladder. I take a breath and decide this is like ripping off a Band-Aid. I wrap my arms around the box and just go for it. My knees shake from the weight. I don’t know if the box is too heavy or I’m not strong, but I set it down a little harder than I mean to just because I can’t hold it up anymore. The crooks of my elbows have red marks where the lid dug into my arms.

  I run my hand over the top of the box. I can feel my pulse beating in my thumb. Now, her name is clearly visible on the side of the box. I trace the letters with my finger. If there were ever a time for electromagnetic pulses or something, this would be it. I’d love to get a sign right now. A flickering light. The air-conditioning
unit kicking in. Anything.

  When nothing unusual happens, I lift the lid of the box. Suddenly I feel electricity, but not from an ectoplasm or anything like that. It’s from me. It’s like I’m lit up.

  The box is full. At first glance, only a few items are visible. First, there’s an old scarf that she made. My mom dabbled in sewing, but she wasn’t very good at it. Every year for New Year’s she’d resolve to improve. She’d buy patterns and fabric, and then she’d declare Sunday afternoons “me time.” She set up a small space in the corner of the rec room part of the basement for her sewing table. Usually this phase lasted about two to three weeks. Just enough time for her to complete one project—something simple like a tablecloth or a scarf—decide that she would never be able to master it, and then toss the sewing machine into its box and tuck it back onto the shelf. I glance up and see the light blue container where she’d put it last January. Just a few days later, any chance that she’d become a seamstress ended.

  That last time she pounded up the stairs and threw her hands up in the air, she’d announced, “Well, this is it!”

  She had a hideous green and purple scarf tied around her neck. Not only were the colors awful, it was obvious that something had been put together wrong. One end was clearly thinner than the other.

  Paige and I had glanced at each other, trying to figure out if it was okay to laugh.

  “This is my masterpiece. What do you think?” my mom said before twirling around in a circle. I giggled first, and Paige burst out laughing.

  “Yeah, yeah, you know you want one. But I’m afraid you’re out of luck. I’m done sewing. For good this time.”

  “Oh suuuurre,” Paige teased.

  Just then my dad had come into the kitchen for a snack. He stopped and stared at her. “What’s that?”

  My mom had rolled her eyes and slapped him playfully on the arm. “It’s a scarf.”

  He pursed his lips and nodded.

  “Mom said she’s done sewing,” Paige announced.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yes, and don’t try to talk me out of it.” My mom held her hand up.

  “But you have such natural talent,” my dad deadpanned.

  There was a pause before my mom’s body started shaking, and I thought she was crying, but then she started giggling. Before I knew it we were all cracking up.