Haunted

by Susan Oloier

  “Get in the car!” a voice calls out. It’s a familiar and a welcome one, too.

  “You scared me,” I say, rushing to pull open the passenger-side door.

  “Well, you shouldn’t have taken off.” It’s Stella, and she scolds me. “I was totally worried.

  “Where’s Nate?” I check the back seat.

  “Home. I was done with his attitude for the night. He was super pissed at you.”

  “Was?” I question. I hold my freezing hands up to the heat vent as we rattle idly along the side of the road.

  “I told him,” she confesses. “About you and what happened.”

  “Oh.”

  “He feels like a jerk.”

  “Well, he should,” I say.

  Stella peers across me out into the cemetery. “Why did you go out there?”

  I shrug.

  “I understand he’s your boyfriend and all,” she plays with her bracelets, “but it’s the middle of the night.” She sounds sad.

  I measure my words before I say them. I don’t want Stella to think I’m nuts. “I wanted to talk to him,” I finally say. “Sometimes I think he’s around. I get…signs.”

  “Really?”

  I nod. “There’s this really cool red bird that hangs out near his grave. It seems so out of place. I wonder if it’s him.”

  Stella doesn’t say anything, so I’m sure she thinks I’m mad. Maybe I am. So I keep talking. “Before the party—the one on Pine River—I found a red feather. In my purse. It wasn’t there when I left. It’s like he put it there, you know?” I turn to Stella, almost pleading for her to confirm my story. “It can’t be a coincidence. It just can’t.”

  “It is weird,” she admits. “Hey,” her mood jumps a notch. “I have an idea.”

  “Does it involve going back out in the cemetery?” I ask. “Because I’m freezing.”

  Stella cranks up the heat and puts the car in gear. “Just trust me.”

  Hailey

  We sit in the car staring at a storefront that says Psychic Readings. Except the y in the neon sign is out, so it actually says Ps chic Readings, as though it’s simply a place to do something fashionable like have a mani while they read your palm. The open sign is illuminated.

  “Let’s do it.” There’s excitement in Stella’s voice. “Come on. What do you have to lose?”

  I guess nothing. But I’m nervous nonetheless. There’s nothing the psychic can say that will shock me anymore.

  I know Stella’s trying hard to cover over for what Nate said to me earlier; she’s working to bolster my spirits. The least I can do is humor her. “All right.”

  We step inside the muted lighting of the room, and bells jangle over the door. The space is closed in and cluttered. Wide ranges of cheap figurines from dragons to angels stake out the flat surfaces in the room. 1960s love beads hang over a door leading to the back. Lit candles frame the perimeter of the waiting room. There are some high-backed chairs, and a few numerology books lying around for light reading. An oil painting of a full moon on the wall opposite from us is tilted at a slight angle. I suppress the urge to fix it. I search for the werewolf in the picture—it’s that kind of place. There’s none. From the back, I hear the sound of a laugh track off the television. I try to decipher what sitcom is playing. Maybe Everybody Loves Raymond or one of those New York-based comedies.

  Just as Stella and I are ready to sit down, a woman with long gray hair emerges from the back, and the beads click against one another.

  “Can I help you?” she asks. Her tone is flat, not infused with the mysterious, drawn-out syllables of movie psychics.

  “We’re here for a reading,” Stella says.

  The woman looks back to the place from where she came. She’s missing critical parts of the show, I can tell. “Thirty dollars for one. Fifty for the both of you,” she tells us while her attention stays focused on the back room.

  Stella fishes through her purse. “I only have fifteen,” she says, pulling out a wad of bills and counting them.

  I open my wallet and uncover a twenty. Is it really worth my Jackson to have a stupid reading? Probably not, but Stella’s trying so hard. I hold it for a moment, and both Stella’s and the woman’s eyes are on me, waiting to see what I’ll decide. I reluctantly pass the bill to her, and she tucks it in her shirt.

  “One moment.”

  Stella and I give each other eyes as the woman goes into the back room and shuts off the television set. I glance at a finger-smudged plaque on the wall. It reads Miss Claire: Physic Readings. I nudge Stella, and she sees the faux pas, too. Miss Claire probably bought the signage at a discount because she’s most definitely not a Stephen Hawking.

  “Come back,” she says, leading us into a much larger room than I imagined. In the corner is a small sofa facing a TV set. There’s a round table in the middle of the room, and I’m disappointed there’s no crystal ball in the center. Books on astrology, numerology, and even some Sylvia Brown are unevenly placed on overly worn and outlived bookcases. Candles flicker throughout the room.

  “So who wants the reading?” Miss Claire asks before any of us sit down.

  My head throbs from too much alcohol, and I feel too tired to absorb anything the psychic—or in her case physic—has to say. “You go,” I tell Stella.

  “No,” she insists right away. “You need to ask about…”

  “Fine.”

  Miss Claire gestures to the seats across from her as she sits down. “You can ask three questions. What do you want to know?”

  I’m ill prepared. It’s impossible to think of three questions. There are things I definitely want to know like where my life is going from here; things I’m afraid to know like if there’s an afterlife and if Jeremy is there; and things I plain don’t want to know such as the date of my own death.

  Stella elbows me. “How about the…you know?”

  The light fixture over the table shines too brightly, giving me the feeling of being in what I imagine an interrogation room would look like. Do I really want to know the source of the red feather? I so want to believe it’s from Jeremy that if Miss Claire tells me differently, I think I’ll crumble into a million pieces.

  “Where did the feather come from?” I finally blurt. I know Stella is wide-eyed beside me.

  Miss Claire extends her hand to take my own. Her skin is cold and the consistency of softened newspaper. She closes her eyes and goes silent for a moment. Stella and I carefully glance at one another. I wonder if the psychic notices how clammy my skin has become and the way my pulse has accelerated by about a hundred more beats per minute.

  “It’s a sign,” she eventually utters.

  The moment she speaks the words, my heart feels like it’s grown wings because it beats so madly in my chest. Stella and I dare not move, pass glances, or say a thing. “From…” she focuses, channels her psychic energy to reach into another realm to fish out an answer for me. “…from…I’m getting a man. Does this make sense to you?”

  Man? I think. Technically, Jeremy wasn’t a man. Nonetheless, I nod. I hear Stella emit a tiny squeak. Miss Claire lifts an eye to peer at Stella who clams up.

  “He was someone very close to you, no?”

  I nod again. Her eyes open fully and pierce my own, which freaks me out. It’s as though she can see right into my past and to what I had done.

  “A boyfriend?”

  I gulp. “Yes.”

  “Any other questions?” she asks, sealing her eyes.

  “Is he okay?” I know the question is lame. Nothing flashy like will I win a million bucks? But I need to know.

  “Of course,” she reassures me with a squeeze of the hand. “But I can’t tell yet if he has passed to the other side. It’s a little fuzzy.”

  Her comment disturbs me for a moment. Why wouldn’t Jeremy be on the other side? But then I think, fuzzy, huh? and consider the possibility Miss Claire may have been sipping Bellinis during her TV Land marathons.

  “Only one more questi
on?” I ask to be sure I have already—in less than five minutes—eaten up an entire thirty dollars.

  Miss Claire nods.

  God. What do I want to know? Can Jeremy see me? Does he know everything I do; everything I’ve done? Will he wait for me on the other side? When will I be with him again?

  I’m way too tired to decide what to ask. I’m taxed by the day and everything within it. The alcohol has dulled my senses, and I even yawn.

  “Stella, you ask for me.”

  “Is that okay?” Stella asks Miss Claire.

  “Sure.”

  “Hmmm,” Stella considers the possibilities. “I need to make it good.” She even rests a finger alongside her mouth ala Dr. Wheeler. “I know. Are Hailey and Eli destined to be together?”

  I shoot Stella a glance.

  “What? I want to know,” she tells me, eyebrows raised. Then she nods at Miss Claire to go ahead.

  I take a deep breath as Claire closes her eyes and concentrates. Now I’m sure my hands are outright sweaty because this question definitely falls under the I-plain-don’t-want-to-know category. I feel the urge to tear my hand away and put an abrupt end to this whole fiasco of a night.

  “I thought you were trying to make me feel better?” I mutter to Stella.

  “Shhh,” Claire hushes us.

  Stella shrugs innocently.

  “There’s a boy. Music surrounds him,” Claire begins.

  I inhale deeply. This whole thing is way too freaky and too close to what’s real.

  “I see the two of you together,” Claire continues and a rush of adrenaline courses through my body. I honestly don’t want to hear any of this, yet my hand remains firmly within hers. “I keep seeing the word secrets. This could mean anything: you both have them, you’ve shared them.”

  There goes my pulse again. Can this woman really be on to something? Does she have some sixth sense after all and not just a sign hung in her window? “But that was not your friend’s question. Are you destined to be together?” She pauses, either searching the other world for answers or scraping her head for an adequate response. “You are meant to be together, but your destinies are in your own hands.”

  It’s not what I want to hear, so I snatch my hand away this time. “We’re not meant to be together. We’re completely wrong for one another. There’s only one person I’m destined to be with. This whole thing…” I scan the room. “…is just a total fraud.”

  I push back from the table and stand. Stella still sits by my side in shock. Miss Claire’s temperament hasn’t wavered. She must be used to such outbursts.

  “Thanks for the reading,” I say sarcastically as I head through the beads.

  Stella follows behind. We find our way onto the street. Stella moves around to the driver’s side, but peers at me from over the top of the vehicle. “Why are you fighting your feelings for Eli?” she asks rather bluntly. “You obviously have them.”

  “I do not!” I insist.

  “Oh, really? Let me jog your memory then.” She flicks her keys in her hands when I simply wish she’d use them to open the door, start the engine, and chauffeur me home. “The jealous outburst at the club. The out-of-the-blue kissing of Robert. The way you look at Eli. Want me to go on?” She asks from across the roof of the vehicle.

  “No. Open the damn door.”

  “Not until you admit it.” Stella remains stubborn.

  “You know what, Stella?” I yell.

  Her jaw is set as she stares at me, waiting for the rest of what I have to say. At first I don’t know what I plan to say or do. But then I find myself walking around to the driver’s side and getting right in her face. “Fuck you!” I grab for the keys. She captures them before I can snatch them away.

  “Let go!” she demands while giving the key chain a tug.

  “No.” I yank back.

  “What is your freaking problem?” Stella asks, trying again to get control of the car keys.

  “Take it back,” I say, still unwilling to relinquish my grip.

  “Fine,” Stella says. “I take it back. “Now can I have the car keys?” She’s mad.

  I finally let go and walk around to the passenger’s side. I can feel her watching me. She clicks open the door locks and slides in. If there were another way home, I’d take it. But I’m stuck with her, so I reluctantly get in the car.

  “God, Hailey,” Stella says, starting the vehicle, “you have it worse for Eli than I ever imagined.

  In the morning, I plan to make an appointment with Dr. Wheeler.

  Eli

  “Well it’s about fucking time you quit that place,” Nate says.

  “Yeah, I don’t even know why I stayed so long,” I say as we weave our way through the downtown area to a local nightspot.

  We’re not playing tonight, so it’s just a guy’s night out. No band drama. No girl drama. And though I’ve sworn off women altogether, there sure are many fine ones striding along the sidewalks, dressed to kill. Tall, lanky black boots, cascades of hair, tight jeans. I catch one or two giving me double takes. I could likely have a chance with a few of them. Like the blond bombshell at the club the other night. The one who I eventually ditched after a quick make-out session.

  “Did you see the ass on her?” I ask Nate. My eyes follow her curves.

  He stops mid-sidewalk and gapes at me. “Did you just say ass? Doesn’t that totally go against your whole respect-for-women mentality, not to mention your check-your-words-at-the-door, twelve-step shit?”

  I merely shrug.

  “You must be horny,” he adds.

  “Well, at least you have someone,” I lament as we detour into a bar. There are no bouncers at the door, so we head for the pool tables, deciding to lay low until the crowd picks up. We both grab cue sticks and chalk up.

  “There are bennies to having a girlfriend,” Nate says, setting the balls in the rack. “Setbacks, too,” he says, his eyes blazing a trail to a pretty brunette who just sashayed into the place. I turn and lay eyes on her. She’s hot. No doubt. She and I connect, but I glance away. It would be so easy to give into all of that. But she’s not the one I want. Her eyes are on and off me like the peeling away of clothes. Shit, I need a cold shower.

  “Man, she wants you,” Nate says. “You should go for it.”

  I actually consider it. Hell, I have no chance with Hailey anymore.

  He shoves me lightly. “Here she comes.”

  “So,” she says, sweeping her thick hair behind her back, “who’s winning?” She leans against the pool table. Her eyes are glued to me: long lashes, high cheekbones. My view falls to her v-neck shirt. She’s not from this world.

  “Well, that depends on what you mean,” Nate says, clearly flirting. “If you mean the game,” he croons, chalking his pool cue, “then I am. If you mean capturing the attention of a pretty woman, then I’d have to say him.” He nods in my direction.

  She smiles at Nate. I watch the two of them mingle their chemistry as though playing scientist.

  “I’m Miranda,” she says to Nate, her eyes still flitting toward me as though I’m not yet entirely forgotten. But I’m getting a sneaking suspicion she’s in the process of changing teams.

  “Nate,” he says to her. “Buy you a beer?”

  “Sure,” Miranda says.

  I lift an eyebrow in Nate’s direction, wondering how he plans to swing an alcohol purchase when he’s clearly underage with no fake ID.

  “And you are?” Miranda asks.

  “Eli.”

  “So where’s your girlfriend tonight, Eli?” Miranda draws out her words as though she’s trying to seduce the answer from me.

  “Well…” I stammer.

  She moves around me like a snake. “Don’t tell me someone as hot…” she breathes the last word into my ear as her hand finds the dip in my back, “…as you is girlfriend-free.” She slowly runs her fingers along it like we’ve known each other forever, then grabs hold of my pool cue, leans down, and takes a shot at the racked balls. She
faces me and waits for my response.

  My eyes shoot to Nate who is overly anxious for a shot at this girl as he finagles his way into two beers.

  I could have Miranda if I wanted her. She’s so many things most guys desire: gorgeous, sexy, flirtatious, and ready. But she has other qualities, too: a sense of entitlement, too much makeup, and an eagerness that could easily match Nate’s. So not my type. She’d be perfect for Nate if he didn’t have Stella. Best to just get rid of her altogether before she makes any more trouble.

  “Not girlfriend-free,” I say, my gaze moving deliberately to Nate who stands at the bar in a debate with the bartender.

  Miranda’s look follows my own. “Oh. My. God,” she says, dropping her head to her hand. “I feel like a complete idiot.”

  “Don’t,” I say. “It happens all the time.”

  “Wow,” Miranda repeats like a mantra. “Just, wow! I thought, since your friend was so…” she chooses her words carefully, “…nice and all that he was…God. Sorry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  Just then, Nate approaches. I can almost see the pheromones coming off him. “So,” he starts,” what have you two been talking about?” Nate extends the beer to Miranda, but I intercept it. “Thanks, man,” I say.

  His eyebrows try to puzzle out what’s going on here.

  “Well, you two have a nice night,” Miranda says.

  Nate turns, watches her walk away. When he pivots back to me, he glares. “What the hell just happened?”

  I take a gulp of beer and pick up the pool cue. “Let’s play, shall we?”

  “What the fuck did you just say to her?” Nate asks, frozen to the spot. He steals glances of Miranda with her friends at the bar.

  I shrug, run a hand through my hair.

  “What?” he demands.

  “Nothing,” I say moving around the table behind Nate. I make sure Miranda and her friends are watching before I grab Nate’s ass. They notice. He notices. All I do is smile.