“We, the jury of Middle House, find you, Joshua Everett Mowrer, guilty of murder. Let the punishment fit the crime.”
* * *
Mick’s stepfather broke the surface and climbed onto the yacht. He went below and Dougie followed him. As soon as Mowrer removed his wet suit, Dougie waved his hands.
“Time to freeze your nuts off, asshole.”
In a few seconds Dougie dropped the temperature in the cabin twenty degrees.
“Jesus!” shrieked Mowrer.
Shivering, he pulled on pants and boots and a thick wool sweater and angrily yanked a down parka out of the closet. He was blinking, confused at seeing his breath, trying to wrap his brain around the fact that there were ice crystals forming on the windows. His teeth were chattering as he cursed.
“This is insane!”
“You ain’t seen shit yet,” said Darby.
Lucy, in her black cat form, sauntered into the cabin.
“Wha-what the hell?” Mowrer stammered.
He tried to kick Lucy, but she was way too quick and sidestepped him, then floated up right in his face, hissed loudly, and with a powerful swipe, scratched his cheek, leaving four bloody streaks.
“Ahhhhh!”
Mowrer ran out of the cabin, up onto the deck, and looked around frantically, then began to haul in the anchor.
* * *
We all floated up above the boat and watched as Cameron waved his hand slowly.
The water swirled around, creating a vortex that spun Mowrer’s Well Earned cruiser in a circle. In seconds, the lake became turbulent and deadly. Cameron waved at the sky.
“Chance of precipitation is one hundred percent.”
Clouds formed quickly. The sky rumbled. Rain and hailstones pounded down.
“This can’t be happening!” screamed Mowrer.
“But it is,” said Mick. “Just for you.”
Knowing as I did now how he had brutally murdered Mick, this all felt kind of spectacular. I wondered if I should feel guilty enjoying watching another human being suffer. I’d always believed in karma. Now I was seeing it in action.
Looking almost gleeful, Darby got into the act, opening her eyes as wide as a circus clown. A vision of Mick’s corpse appeared on the yacht.
“Wow. That’s some kind of power you got there,” I said.
“It’s just a hallucination, but it feels totally real to him,” she said. “He’s going to crap his Dockers.”
Mick’s stepfather clutched at his chest.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—God forgive me!” he wailed.
“A little late for that,” said Mick.
I watched as Mick floated down and opened the engine hatch and Zipperhead grabbed a diving knife from the gearbox and sliced a fuel hose, sending gasoline spewing. Mick hovered over his pathetic, murderous stepfather.
“This was fun, ‘Daddy.’ I hope Mom finds someone decent, you scumbag.”
Mick was done. He couldn’t help but crack a smile as he looked at us. But the smile didn’t last. He began to look a little sad. I believed a part of him would be sad forever.
“Let’s get out of here.”
We soared back and stood on the water. Literally on it. Incredibly—I couldn’t believe my eyes—we just walked on the surface. Mick led the way back toward the docks and we followed, everyone walking on the water except Lucy, who hitched a ride on Darby’s shoulder. I turned to Cole.
“So … Mick just wanted to scare him? He’s going to let him live?”
Zipperhead let out a little snorting laugh.
“Just wait for it,” he said.
Mick now spoke to Zipperhead.
“Would you mind doing the honors?”
Zipperhead grinned and rubbed his zipper scars vigorously with his hands, which began to crackle with electricity.
“Adios, amigo,” he said.
He pointed his fingers at the Well Earned. A long arc of electricity fired across the water and struck the yacht. An ear-splitting boom echoed through the night. I flinched as Mowrer’s yacht erupted, exploding in a roiling ball of flame. My heart was pounding.
“Holy shit.”
I’d just witnessed my first kickass haunting and retribution.
* * *
We flew to Briarcrest, a gated community outside of Kirkland, to Mick’s old house. Mick stood in his driveway, gazing in the window. His mother was playing a baby grand piano. Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” The notes hung strong and mournful in the night air. I’d never heard anything so beautiful. When she finished, she stroked the piano like an old friend, and then closed the keyboard cover. Mick was weeping silently.
“Good-bye, Mom. I hope to see you someday.”
I could feel my heart squeeze in my chest. Mick hugged each of us, then raised his arms and floated upward, glowing more and more brightly as he rose like a balloon. I was stunned and couldn’t help but murmur a dumb question.
“Where’s he going?”
“He’s moving on,” Cole said. “To join the Afters.”
We craned our necks, watching him drift up and up until he was just a tiny point of light and became one of the twinkling stars. I hoped he would find peace beyond the cruel clattering of this world and carry nothing but loving memories with him.
“Is this how it happens?” I asked. “You pass through to the next afterlife once you’ve brought your killer to justice?”
“Yeah,” said Zipperhead. “The sooner you move on, the sooner you can be reborn.”
“What do you mean ‘reborn’?” I asked. “You mean like a newborn baby?
“Yeah. We play our cards right and we get another shot,” Darby said.
I was learning. It wasn’t like I was getting used to being a ghost, but in its own weird way, things were beginning to make sense to me. An eager yearning took hold of me. I had to find out who’d killed me.
OBITUARY
Back at Middle House, we entered quietly. Everyone headed for their rooms. The light in Miss Torvous’s room was on, and passing by her door, I heard the sad love song, “Ain’t No Sunshine.” It sounded like Miss Torvous—though hard to imagine—was or had been in love. I stopped and listened more closely and heard a faint crying. I thought about trying to pass partially through the door to get a better look, but just then the crying—whimpering, really—stopped, and then so did the music. She must have sensed me outside her door. Her light flicked out and I heard footsteps.
I pushed away as quickly as I could and flew down the hall, ducking into a doorway just as Miss Torvous yanked open her door. I could hear her uneven breathing. She looked in my direction but I was flat against the door and she didn’t spot me. I waited a beat, then poked my head out far enough so that I could see her. Her eyes were red, and she wiped away tears and then shut her door, hard. I wondered what was going on in her life.
Cole appeared and walked with me to my room.
“She was crying,” I whispered. “She seems so strong. What could possibly make her cry?”
“Torvous, crying? She’s got a heart of stone. You must have imagined it.”
“No, I definitely heard her crying.”
“She’s always been alone. I know she’s not happy. But I have no idea what could be tormenting her. I mean, besides being dead,” he said.
“I was kind of wondering if she was really dead, because she looks so real, so healthy. You know, healthy in a creepy kind of way.”
“That’s her power. She can appear to be human to the living. That’s how she’s able to maintain this place. You know, dealing with the groundskeeper and the occasional curious soul who happens by. They probably think she’s some kind of crazy old cat lady.”
“And we’re the cats.”
We reached my room and I opened the door.
“Kind of a big night for you, I know,” said Cole.
“Gee, ya think?”
When I remembered all that had happened in the last few hours, my heart raced and I got so dizzy it felt like my
head was going to fall off. Cole reached for me. As soon as he touched my cheek, my head cleared. I looked at his eyes, which were beautiful even in the dim light cast from the candle that Lucy had lit in my room. Cole didn’t seem eager to speak, or to leave, for that matter. His eyes were shining, and he had a wry, Mona Lisa smile going on. I was definitely attracted to him. But what could I have possibly been thinking? Even though I was dead, I was still crazy in love with Andy. My soul mate forever.
“I know this is all going to take some getting used to,” Cole finally said.
I felt the heat from his fingertips. I was out of my head in that moment, under the spell of a handsome boy. A ghost. And I was letting myself drift toward bliss.
“I don’t think I can ever get used to … this…” I mumbled.
“You will. Trust me. Good night.”
I stared at his lips. Was he going to kiss me? No. He turned to go. I felt a sudden jerking, a twinge of loss. As though he could sense my feelings, he stopped and came back.
“Echo?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I hug you?”
Whoa. Talk about being pushed and pulled. I nodded, trembling, and he wrapped his arms around me. Our bodies fit together perfectly. Now I knew for sure that even ghosts get turned on. The hug was achingly brief but potent. I felt like I was in the arms of … family. As he pulled away, I could see that he was blushing.
“Even though it sucks being dead, I’m glad you’re here.”
“I wish I could say the same thing,” I said.
He frowned.
“I didn’t mean…”
“I know what you meant. Good night,” he said.
He averted his eyes and departed, this time for good, disappearing down the hall into his own room. The feeling of the hug lingered on my body.
* * *
In our room, Lucy was already asleep, purring. Yeah, this is going to take some getting used to, I thought. I plopped down on my bed to rest my weary bones. Wait, I wondered, did I have bones? It felt like it. I felt the same, like my body did … before. I touched my arms, my legs. They felt solid to me. But I knew the truth. I was imprisoned in this in-between existence, terrified, cheated out of the life I was supposed to have. I closed my eyes and prayed for sleep. I wanted to dream about Andy. I tossed and turned, but couldn’t fall asleep.
“Lucy? Are you awake?”
She rolled onto her side and opened a cat eye.
“Sure, I’m a light sleeper.”
I knew I’d woken her.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I nap on and off all day long.”
“Why does every kid at Middle House have some amazingly cool power?”
“No one knows. Except, it’s kind of like whoever created the universe gave us something special to help us through this in-between time. What was done to us was rotten. So it’s like he or she or it knows we need some kind of advantage to right the wrongs done to us.”
She yawned and curled up—her tail appearing briefly and twitching—and in seconds she was purring again.
I lay there for what seemed like forever, pondering my future, which appeared bleak, at best. I closed my eyes and tossed and turned, unable to sleep.
How could this have happened? Who had done this to me? I wanted so badly to learn the identity of my executioner and pay him back. Or her. The pain and anger were draining. I was exhausted and eventually sleep claimed me.
* * *
I found myself in a disjointed dream. My father was holding my hand and we were on Patterson Bluff overlooking Puget Sound, one of my most treasured places.
“Echo?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“No matter what happens, just remember that I love you with all my heart.”
I nodded. My stomach tightened up. Whenever someone said “no matter what happens,” you knew something was going to happen—and it was NEVER good. I stared up at him as the sky changed from gray to black and stars skidded by in the heavens. I wanted to speak, wanted to ask him, What do you mean? But I was too scared. Then the cliff fell away and I was plummeting down.
The dream shifted. I was with Andy, looking into his eyes, which were sparkling hazel, and that was weird, because I knew darn well they were brown. I was momentarily confused but it passed. The dream continued. I was younger, totally crushed out on him, and I was crouching down, staring at him through a crack in the old fence that separated our yards. He was cutting his backyard grass with a push mower. He took his shirt off. His arms were taut and muscular—he had guns for sure—his stomach hard and flat, but not ropey-rippled like those fake-looking Abercrombie guys. I was wondering what it would be like to feel his warm stomach against mine. I prickled with little points of light that danced from my scalp to my toes. Fear and desire were waging a battle.
The dream shifted. Another day, a scorcher in the throes of summer. On a long walk. I trembled as I took his hand. Every time I was around him, I thought of dark, exciting things. We walked in silence, the only sound the rush of a nearby creek. When we reached the soft, green grass of the riverbank, he embraced me.
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
Our lips were about to meet when Andy’s image dissolved, the scene shifting now to my parents’ house. The creek turned bloodred. In a brutal torrent, it flooded into my parents’ house, bringing the walls down. Red rain seeped up from the ground and lifted into the ashen sky.
In the morning, when I woke up, I thought I was back in my old bedroom, alive. But no, I was here, in Middle House. Dead, thank you very much, universe. I closed my eyes again. Maybe if I just stayed there for a really long time and kept my eyes closed, I could shut out the freak show. I could clear my mind of everything and become one with the cosmos.
That lasted for about thirty seconds. Oh, the hell with it. I got up, my stomach grumbling, and headed for the dining room. I intended to eat until the food begged for mercy.
Cole and the others from last night’s haunting weren’t there, so I found a seat and helped myself to the offerings—French toast and pancakes—piling my plate high and digging in. I loved the fact that I could eat until my stomach should explode.
Cole appeared in the dining hall doorway and made a motion like “follow me.” I could have eaten another two or three slices but something in his manner made me super curious what he was up to. I got up and followed him.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I have something to show you.”
He led me down a stairwell until we came to a big green door, which he opened, ushering me in like a real gentleman. It was a storeroom, with boxes stacked floor to ceiling, office furniture piled up in dangerous-looking heaps, and old textbooks by the hundreds, spines broken, shelved for eternity. Cole found an antique rolltop desk in the corner, upon which sat a vintage CRT computer monitor. It was attached to an ancient IBM computer slumped ingloriously on its side on the floor.
“It’s a dial-up modem, if you can believe it. It’s horrendously slow, but it works. Anyway, I got curious, so I looked online and found something I thought you’d want to check out. Eileen.”
It was agonizing waiting for the bogus, old contraption to make the connection, the modem whirring and beeping. But the screen eventually popped on and loaded, slowly, page 8 of the community section of the Seattle Times, and on the obituary page, in print so tiny I had to squint, I read a sentence that stopped my heart.
A memorial service for Eileen Stone, beloved daughter of James and Carolyn Stone, will be held Tuesday, September 17, at 11:00 a.m. at Green’s Funeral Home in Kirkland.
Cole and I exchanged a look. The concept hit me in about two seconds. I was about to do something gonzo weird.
“Cole, am I going to do what I think I’m going to do?”
“Yeah. You’re gonna go to your own funeral.”
FUNERAL
Green’s Funeral Home was situated on a lush hillside on the outskirts of Kirkland and sat adjac
ent to the sprawling, tree-lined Kirkland Cemetery, no doubt the final resting place for my mortal flesh and bones. Which was totally ironic, because as a little kid I used to play there, dancing amongst the tombstones, flaunting disrespect for the departed. Now it looked like some kid was going to be dancing on my grave. How wonderful.
Cole and I approached, and he was grinning, even though his eyes seemed sad.
“Can I call you Eileen?”
“If you do, I’ll kill you.”
“Sorry, someone beat you to it.”
I wondered how Cole had died. I knew he’d tell me when the time was right.
I stared at the funeral home. I was out of my mind with fear. I felt like someone was holding me back with a choke collar; Cole had practically dragged me here, explaining that it might be the best place to jog my memory.
We entered the main building and followed the strains of “Time to Say Goodbye” down a hallway flocked with floral wallpaper. I was feeling extremely sad.
“This is so creepy,” I said.
“Yeah. Hang in there,” he said.
“I don’t know … if I can do this…”
“I’ll be right here with you.”
We came to a chapel, where my friends and family were gathered to say sayonara. Mom and Dad were there, of course, along with my uncle Daniel and aunt Liz; my cousins, Vincent and Brandon; my basketball coach, Miss Reiger; and my favorite faculty member, Mr. Hemming, the psychology teacher who also taught photographic arts. His precious camera was hanging around his neck as usual. Tons of kids from school were there, some of them friends, some not so much.
And there was Andy, his strong shoulders slumped, his eyes portals to untold pain. Sitting a few seats away from him was Dani Cooper, the only other girl I knew whom he ever took to the movies, my old friend until it became clear Andy and I were so much more than just neighbors. Sitting behind Dani were creepy Denise Wiggins and her clique of rich acolytes.
I looked at my casket. It was a baroque, très élégant affair, the wood the color of gingerbread, the handles sparkling brass, the lining pink silk. I slowly moved closer. And then I was staring at my dead body. I was sure I’d be frightened, but all I could think was, who in the hell did my makeup? I’d never worn aqua eye shadow before in my life and my lashes looked crusty and way too thick, like someone had plastered little black caterpillars on my eyes. And why was my hair coiffed up and all puffy? I was starting to get mad, thinking I could not go off into eternal rest looking like a country-western singer! But then I softened a little when I saw that Mom had chosen my favorite cotton print dress, the vanilla one with the tiny red roses weaved into it. I loved that dress. Because it was Andy’s fave.
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