Ghosters

by Corbitt, Diana;

  Kerry picks up one of the pictures and Frisbees it over to me. “There’s one of you riding that pink tricycle we found.”

  I smile at my two-year-old self, hair pulled up in two little pigtails with the strap of my blue bathing suit sagging off my shoulder. “Aw. I’m out by the pool. I was a cute little thing, wasn’t I?”

  “Adorable. Hey, what happened to make your folks stop visiting your grandparents? Sounds kind of mysterious.”

  “I wish I knew.” I reach behind me and snag Frankie, the stuffed panda bear I’ve had ever since I can remember. “All I know is that my mom and my grandma got into some huge fight when I was really little, and they never spoke after that. Once I even caught my mom tearing up a Christmas card my grandma sent us.”

  “Really? My mum argues with Nana all the time, but they always get over it.”

  I shrug and hug Frankie to my chest. Then this fight must have been huge, because mine never did.

  CHAPTER 14

  WE PICK A shady, out-of-the-way spot, far from the racket that usually goes with lunch break at a middle school. Kerry positions the EVP recorder on the picnic table between us and drops onto the bench.

  “There,” she announces. “We can listen while we eat.”

  I put down my chicken nuggets and fries and slide onto the opposite bench. A big fan of condiments, I’ve also brought along a handful of foil packets. I squeeze one of each onto a napkin. Mayonnaise. Mustard. Ketchup.

  The EVP recording plays and Kerry’s face pinches up as she watches me swirl my creation with a French fry. “You’re actually going to dip your chips in that mess?”

  “What chips?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Sorry, I meant fries.”

  I offer her a big one, dripping with my peach colored blend. “It’s good. Try it.”

  She wrinkles her nose and hunches down over the recorder, turkey sandwich in hand.

  For a good while there’s nothing to comment on, and we munch our food while listening to ourselves talk.

  Kerry smirks. “This is weird.”

  “Yeah.” I dip my chicken nugget. “It’s like we’re eavesdropping on ourselves.”

  From time to time somebody on the recording says something funny and we smile. When it gets to the part where we hear the two knocks, we lean closer.

  “Wow,” I whisper.

  Kerry waves her hand. “Shh. This is where it gets interesting.”

  I stare down at the palm-sized recorder, and images of the scene play out in my mind.

  Joey: Point it the other way, Theresa.

  A sound—high pitched—almost musical, like a stream trickling over rocks.

  Kerry meets my eyes, her eyebrows halfway up her forehead.“Tell me you heard that.”

  I sit up straight. “Was that giggling?”

  She plays it again.

  I gasp. “It is giggling. But quiet . . . like it’s coming from really far away.”

  Kerry helps me shove aside our food, and we huddle down beside the tiny speaker. Again she plays the recording back, chewing her lip the whole while.

  Giggling. There’s no denying it, and since none of us was laughing . . .

  “Wow.” As it had the day before, my skin gets all goosepimply. “That must be what I heard when I thought you’d said something.”

  After the fourth playback, she turns the machine off and pounds the table with both hands. “We did it. We recorded a ghost. I wonder who it could be.”

  Even though it’s a warm day, the goose bumps are in no hurry to leave, and I rub my arms. “Well, it sure doesn’t sound like my mom. I suppose it could be my grandmother. Grandpa Joe died there too, but it’s kind of high pitched to be a man.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know that. It sort of increases the creep factor on the house, if that’s even possible.”

  “Yeah, but for some reason I just don’t think it’s either one of them.” With elbows on the table, I rest my chin on my hands. “I think the recording is someone else completely. That house is over a hundred years old. For all we know, the ghost is someone else who died there . . . even way before my grandparents moved in.”

  I think of playing the recording for my dad, and my breath catches as I imagine his reaction.

  Give it a rest, Theresa. Obviously it was coming from the TV downstairs. Or maybe you left the radio on in your room . . .

  I stand up to gather the trash from our lunches. “Kerry, we know we recorded a ghost’s voice, but we can’t prove anything.”

  She pulls her long legs out and over the bench and sprawls back against the picnic table, elbows resting on the sun-bleached wood. All around us kids swarm the courtyard in their little noonday clusters.

  “Does it matter?”

  I shake my head, but to me it does. I want to find something Dad can’t laugh away.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE REST OF the day goes by in a blur. All I can think of is the ghost in the wardrobe and Kerry’s recording. It’s a surprise when Dad notices during dinner.

  “Theresa?”

  “Huh?”

  He frowns across the table at me. “I asked if you were feeling all right.”

  “You’ve been pushing the same green bean around your plate for five minutes,” Joey says.

  I look down at my uneaten meatloaf. “Oh, yeah, huh.”

  “Are you thinking about the ghost?” Joey asks.

  I remember Kerry’s warning. If I don’t do something fast, Joey will blab everything. “Ghost? Not me. Why? Did you see a ghost, Jojo?”

  “No, I didn’t see a ghost, but—”

  “That sure would be something, though.” I turn to Dad. “Sorry for acting weird. I was, er—thinking about my geometry class. Yeah . . . guess it, uh, has me a little worried.”

  He purses his lips. “Strange, you never had problems with math before. What is it you don’t get?”

  My brain freezes. Yeah, what?I say the first thing that pops into my head. “Circles.”

  “Circles?” His head tips to the side. “What, like finding their area?”

  It’s as good as any other lie. “Uh, yeah, area—and circumference. I . . . I keep mixing up the formulas.”

  “I could . . . have a look,” Dad’s jaw clenches as he loads his fork with mashed potatoes, “once we finish dinner.”

  Now that I think about it, Dad never helped me with homework. It was always Mom. With everything, when you get right down to it.

  Normally, I’d jump at the chance for a little extra attention, but since I’m lying . . . “That’s okay. There’s an after school tutoring group in the library. I’ll check it out tomorrow.”

  His face relaxes. “Are you sure?”

  Is that relief?

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” I force myself to smile. “I think what I really need is sleep.”

  “Sleep. That’s the ticket.” He gives my hand a quick pat. Then he turns to Joey, all smiles. “So, how about you, buddy? Need any help with your homework?”

  AT EIGHT O’CLOCK, I follow Joey upstairs to bed. I’ve been trying to read, but my thoughts do a three-way ping pong between what happened in the basement, my dad, and what I saw in Grandma Carmen’s room. No wonder I’m totally exhausted.

  Since our doors are opposite each other, we pause there. Even though it’s obvious that Dad likes him more than me, there’s no way I can hold it against my brother. He’s just Joey.

  “Night, Theresa.”

  He turns to open his door, so I hustle over and plant a quick kiss on his cheek.

  “Yuck.” He turns, rubbing it off, as I expected. “What was that for?”

  “For being you.”

  I WORRY MY thoughts will keep me awake for hours, bouncing around in my head like moths in a jar. Instead, I fall asleep quick and don’t wake up until the alarm goes off the next morning.

  Even before I open my eyes I’m already grinning. For the first time since her death, I dreamed of Mom. We were back in our old house making chorizo sausages in the garage. I was
in charge of tying the meat-filled casings into links while Mom hung the finished product up on the rack to dry. Then, as dreams tend to do, the scene changed and we were strolling side by side through the mall at Christmas time, our arms loaded with packages.

  With a sigh, I climb out of bed and throw open the curtains. Back in Crescent City, it’s normal to wake up to an overcast sky, but here it’s already blue.

  Since my relationship with Dad depresses me, I push it aside the way I always do. Instead, I spend my morning shower thinking about what happened in Grandma Carmen’s room. It’s obvious I’ve experienced a “paranormal event,” as they call them on all theghost chasing shows. But what or who did I see in my grandmother’s closet?

  I wrap a fluffy white towel around me and trot down the hall to my room. As I pull on my last pair of clean underwear, images of whatever I’d seen in the wardrobe sandwich themselves between the happy memories of my dream and considering what to wear to school today. One good thing about being the new kid: nobody knows you haven’t bought any school clothes this year. It helps that I haven’t grown much lately.

  I pull on some shorts. When I open the closet to get my favorite red top, I sigh. There’s a big pile of dirty clothes on the floor. Plus, we’ve barely been here a week, and already I can’t find a thing. I push pants and tops aside, determined to rearrange everything by color when I get home from school. After shoving aside a few hangers, I find the top I’ve been looking for, slip it over my head, and turn to leave.

  My mother is sitting on the bed. Dressed in the same white capris and tee-shirt she was wearing the day that teenager smashed into her car.

  “Mommy?” My damp skin chills.

  Looking very much alive, my mother stands and opens her arms wide the way she’s done a thousand times. In my head, joy and dread crash into each other like bumper cars. But the need to touch her wins out, and I throw my arms around her.

  “Mommy, what are you doing here? Everybody said you were dead.”

  She takes my hand, and without a word, we climb onto the bed and sit cross-legged, facing each other.

  She leans toward me, our foreheads almost touching. “I was wrong, baby. There’s something you should know.”

  I wipe my eyes with the heel of my hand. “What?”

  “Take this.” Her voice cracks as she sticks out her hand, palm up.

  It’s a key.

  I gasp. “What’s it for?”

  She presses it into my palm. “It’s going to be scary, but you have to look anyway.”

  Pulse racing, I frown. “I don’t understand. Mommy—”

  “You need to know, Theresa. Look.”

  Look? I stare down at my hand. Okay, so it’s a key. A really old key. Still not sure what she expects, I look up.

  She’s gone. In her place is a shiny black box. Small. Shoebox sized. I jump off the bed. What is going on? “Mom?” I throw open the bedroom door and peer up and down the hallway. “Mom?”

  No answer.

  This is crazy. I step back inside and close the door.

  The box is still sitting on the bed. But it isn’t shiny anymore. Now, it’s soggy and warped with a rusty metal padlock. I look at the key in my hand. Why not? She said I should look.

  For such a small box, it’s really heavy, but I manage to drag it toward me across the bed and slide the key into the lock. Slowly, the parts click and clack into place.

  I raise the lid. What the heck . . . ?

  Water spills from the box, onto the bed, the floor, drenching the carpet. I leap to the floor, not sure what to do. My lime green bed skirt is already soaked six inches up. In seconds, my knees are wet. Shoes and books float past, bumping against my thighs.

  I shout at the empty room, “Mom!” Nothing. “Mom . . . where are you?”

  Then I hear her voice. “I was wrong, baby. It’ll be scary, but you need to know. Look.”

  “Look?” I pound my fists into the water, head throbbing. “I did look.” I slosh my way back to the door. Locked.

  I have to get out of here.

  The window.

  I could open it; let the water spill out into the yard. Hopeful, I turn.

  Holy crabs, it’s gone.

  The window I peered out just a few minutes before is replaced by a blank wall.

  I shiver as the icy water reaches my chest. All of the stuffed animals from my bed are floating now, along with my hair brush, the shoebox full of photographs, and the three little bottles of nail polish I keep on the dresser.

  I should climb up on the bed. It’s my only chance. I raise my foot, trying to pull myself up. But no. Like stepping in pudding, my feet sink into the mattress.

  Sobbing, I slap the water with my arms. Anger, frustration, fear, they all burst from me as tears, mixing with the ever-rising lake that surrounds me.

  All this time, the water never stops flowing from the box as it bobs alongside my shoes and soggy paperbacks. Even my unicorn poster isn’t safe. Something bumps against my ankle. I peer through the water and gasp. It’s me. Lying on the floor. Staring up. Dark hair swirling.

  “Help!” My screams echo off the walls and I tip my head back. In no time the water reaches my mouth. I pinch it shut to avoid swallowing. But that’s only putting off the inevitable, because already the water—

  CHAPTER 16

  BEEP BEEP BEEP

  My eyes fly open. Gasping and coughing, I turn off the alarm with one quick smack, then clutch at my bedcovers. They’re dry. Oh, thank God!

  Once I catch my breath, I scoot to the edge of the bed and check out the rug. It’s dry too. I sit up, blankets hugged to my chest. It was all just a dream—no, more like a nightmare. My eyes narrow and I scan the room.

  That box. That stinking, little box. If I see it, I’m going to run away fast enough to leave a cartoon cutout of me in the door.Thankfully, everything seems to be in its place. I let out a loud sigh and collapse back on my pillow, eyes closed. What a freaky dream.

  But I’ve got to get ready for school, so I throw back the covers and start for the bathroom to take my morning shower. Just what I need. More water.

  I DO FEEL better after the shower, but it doesn’t help that I’m wrapped in the same white towel from the dream.

  Well, unless I plan on going to school in my pajamas, I have to go back to my room. But what if Mom’s there, sitting on the bed when I open the door? In the dream we hugged, but this is real life. I’m not so sure if I can hug a dead person, even if she is my own mother. I adjust my towel and glance up at the damp bathroom ceiling.

  “I love you, Mommy, but please don’t put me through that.” I swab a face-sized circle in the steamed up mirror and stare into my own eyes, large, green, and so much like hers. Do crazy people know when they’re crazy?

  “Well, I can’t stay in here forever.” I crack open the bathroom door and peek down the hall. All nine doors are shut, so I tiptoe down to my room and yank open the one to my bedroom.

  There’s nobody there. Still, the idea of Mom’s ghost popping out at any second makes my stomach twitch. I look over my shoulder twice on my way to the dresser, then tug on the first shorts I find in the drawer. When the time comes to pull on a top, I gather it up in my hands first so my eyes will be covered for the least possible amount of time. A deep breath and I tug the shirt down over my head and look at the bed. The only one staring back is Frankie, my stuffed panda.

  There’s a framed picture of Mom on the dresser. I pick it up and slide my finger across her one-inch face. “I love you, Mommy, but I don’t think I could handle finding you in my room. You understand, don’t you?”

  After some sloppy bed making I leave the room with an equal mixture of relief and shame. Like every other weekday, Dad has already taken Joey to school, but strangely, I’m not scared. It’s like the place feels empty, not just of people but of ghosts too. I trot downstairs for the same breakfast I eat every day, a bowl of granola topped with sliced grapes. As I chew, my mind turns to the box of old pictures that
fell out of the wardrobe. They were in the dream too. All those faces. Grandma’s friends. Her relatives back in Spain. Mom would know at least some of them, but I sure don’t. Then I remember that I was in the dream too. Floating under the water.

  My breakfast becomes an icy lump in my stomach. Try thinking of something else.

  I dump out what’s left of it and leave my bowl and spoon in the sink to wash when I come home from school.

  Think of what you’d do if you won the contest. I tell myself. The kitchen could sure use some remodeling. Who doesn’t have a dishwasher? I can live with the antique stove, but the refrigerator belongs in a museum along with the screwed-up toilets and the claw-foot bathtub with the leaky shower curtain. Don’t forget the busted air conditioning. I sigh and jog back upstairs to brush my teeth and gather my books for school. No wonder Dad gets mad when I suggest fixing the pool for Joey. I sure hope we win that Ghosters contest. Then we’ll have more than enough money to fix that stuff. Maybe Dad will hug me then.

  I GET TO school and find Kerry sitting alone on the low brick bench in front of the school flagpole. The first thing I do is spill my guts about the dream.

  She shakes her head. “And I thought mine were strange. Yours is award-winning.”

  “No kidding. It was bad enough having the dream, but now I feel guilty.”

  “Why should you feel guilty?”

  “Because when I stepped back into my bedroom this morning and didn’t see her, I was relieved.” Tears fill my eyes. “I didn’t want to see her, Kerry.”

  “I’m sure your mum would understand. Does any of that dream make sense to you?”

  I throw up my hands. “No, and I’ve gone over it a thousand times. She said she wanted me to see. See what, a box full of water? I don’t understand. Why did she put me through that? She died from a car crash, not drowning.”

  Kerry puts her arm around my shoulder and gives me a shake. “Dreams are weird. They don’t always have to mean something.” She dips her head to look me in the eye. “But if your mum was sending you a message . . .”