Haunted Love

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  “Problem, Ginny?” I ask, approaching.

  Ben laughs, and the sound is angry, bitter. “Are you a freak, too?”

  Behind him, Tricia, the lady who owns the beauty shop, is whispering with her best friend, Martie. They’re the unofficial news hotline. If the Old Love becomes known as a place for “wild young hooligans,” it’s all over. I’ve got to deal with this fast and without making a bigger scene.

  “Ben, please,” Ginny says again. “You have to pay or leave.”

  “Fine,” Ben replies. “But just know that I’m —”

  I grab his arm, and I can tell he’s surprised by the strength of my grip. I stare him in the eye, realizing I’m a couple of inches taller. According to the FAQ on my blood dealer’s site, some of us have the power to enthrall the traumatized or weak willed. It’s worth a try. Keeping my voice steady, I say, “You’re going to take off now.”

  “I’m going to take off now,” Ben repeats and pivots on his boot heel to stroll out the front door.

  I’m surprised that it worked. Again, I don’t know Ben well, but I’d never tag him as weak, and as for trauma, anyone could tell he’s led a charmed life.

  “My hero!” Ginny exclaims, and there’s real appreciation in her voice. Then she beams at the two ladies next in line. “May I help y’all?”

  After the last customer settles in, I get Phantom of the Opera running from up in the projector room. Then I hear Ginny call my name. She sounds shocked, terrified.

  I half fly downstairs and burst through the swinging door into the ladies’ room where she’s pointing at GET OUT, written on the mirror in plum-colored lipstick.

  It wasn’t there before we opened. I didn’t notice anyone walking into the room before the movie started. From the look on her face, I’m pretty sure Ginny didn’t do it, but the color of the lettering matches her lips. She grabs the tube from the counter.

  “It’s mine,” she confirms. “It was in my purse.”

  I’d stashed the purse in my office for her when Ginny returned this evening.

  It must have been Sonia. I didn’t know she could do that, move objects. In any case, it’s starting to look like she wants to keep the place to herself. I don’t understand. We’re still getting to know each other, but it was going so well.

  “A dumb joke,” I say to reassure Ginny. “Let’s get it cleaned up.”

  Ginny opens the small storage cabinet to grab a spay bottle of glass cleaner and a roll of paper towels. “What did you do to Ben?” she asks in a measured voice, and I realize how sloppy I’ve been.

  If I want to stay above suspicion, I’m going to have to learn to deal with people — especially run-of-the-mill troublemakers — without using my powers. No more enthralling. For that matter, no more super speed.

  I answer the question with a question. “What’s going on between you and Ben?”

  Ginny begins spraying the glass. “Can I trust you?”

  It’s a bigger question than she realizes. I’m not sure I know the answer. “You can talk to me,” I say. “Ask anyone. I’m no gossip.” That’s true enough.

  She goes to peek out the bathroom door to ensure no one is listening. “Well —”

  “Wait. Let’s go to my office. It has a lock on it. No one can just walk in.”

  “But what about . . . ?” she gestures to the mirror.

  I shrug. “We’ll say it was the ghost.”

  “Ghost?” Ginny asks.

  On our way, I fill her in on the history, characterizing the haunting as local folklore. From Ginny’s severe expression, I figure she either finds the idea of ghosts offensive or blasphemous or, at the moment, she’s invested in a more corporeal issue.

  I let us in, take the desk chair, and wait, trying not to let my impatience show. We can’t stay in here long with the door closed. She’s still a minor after all.

  There’s something about her, though, some strange connection between us. I’ve said more words to Ginny today than I probably have to anyone in the last year.

  Ginny crosses her arms. “I don’t know the people of Spirit that well yet, nowhere nearly as well as they know each other. I didn’t know about Ben.”

  I lean forward to clear newspapers off a crate for her to sit on. “What about him?”

  She takes a seat. “I . . . We went to prom together. Ben got a motel room on the highway afterward. I thought it meant one thing. He thought it meant, um —”

  “I understand,” I say. A lot of guys have expectations about prom. I can’t help wondering how badly Ben took “no” for an answer. The fact that he was still hassling Ginny tonight suggests it was an ugly scene.

  “I had to crawl out the bathroom window,” she adds.

  It could’ve been worse. “You want me to walk you home tonight?”

  “Yes,” Ginny pauses, standing again. “No. I’m fine. It’s just . . . I never meant for things to turn out this way. I never thought going on one lousy date would —”

  “Haunt you forever?” I ask.

  She visibly shivers. “How did you know?”

  My uncle’s face flits across my memory. “Call it a hunch.”

  Once the last happy customer leaves, Ginny skips across the lobby with a large black trash bag. “Let’s get this over with and go celebrate!” With that, she flashes that sunshine grin and disappears into the screening room.

  Celebrate? I’m going to have to sit her down and explain that we’re employee and employer, that we can’t ever be anything more. Except . . . she could use a friend right now. “Hang on,” I say. “Let me help you.”

  I grab a bag, and then it dawns on me that I should probably hit the restrooms first. So, I head down the hall, my steps slowing when I hear the mysterious voice again. “Sonia?” Is that her singing? “Sonia!”

  I let the plastic bag slip from my fingers onto the red carpet and begin walking faster in the direction of the sound. It’s louder, clearer with each step I take.

  I’ve heard the song before. Spirit only gets three radio stations — one in Spanish, one that plays country western, and one that plays golden oldies. It’s a 1950s hit, “To Know Him Is to Love Him.” It’s kind of sweet and kind of insipid and, once you’ve heard it, it’s hard to get out of your head for the rest of the night.

  The voice leads me to the door of a dingy break room that, in the push toward the grand re-opening, I decided to worry about later. I’m reaching for my keys when the supposedly locked door opens on its own.

  Inside, the temperature is cooler, much cooler than it should be, especially with the vents shut. I’m greeted by the sight of a sink and cabinets, an empty space where a full-size refrigerator used to be, a beat-up table big enough for six, and five metal chairs.

  The voice is coming from one of ten rusty half-lockers lined against a wall.

  I’d hold my breath, but breathing is optional. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  When I open the locker, it’s empty. The voice grows louder, the room colder.

  From behind, I hear something smack the table. Turning fast, I see the dust still flying up from where the little cloth-bound book landed. I walk over, and the song dissipates with each step I take, ending altogether when I pick up the . . . it’s a diary.

  I flip through the entries, each signed with the letter “S.” I slip out an old photo of a lovely dark-haired girl, the same girl whose photo is on the front page of the 1959 copy of The Spirit Sentinel in my office. She’s cuddling a tabby kitten.

  Amazing. After a lifetime as a loner, I suddenly have two new girls in my life.

  Ginny is easy enough to figure out. But Sonia? The singing, the diary, even the mysterious S here and there all seem a lot more welcoming than the GET OUT in the bathroom. Does she really want me to leave, or is she just playing along with the haunted-theater theme?

  A moment later, from across the building, Ginny cries out again.

  When I reach the screening room, she’s clutching her right forearm. Blood is dripping throug
h her fingers. I can smell it. I can almost taste it. I feel my fangs slide.

  I pause to regain control, calling, “Ginny!” like I can’t spot her toward the front, bent in the aisle.

  “Over here,” she says, straightening, her face covered by her honey-colored hair.

  I jog to her side. “What happened? Did you cut yourself on a chair?” They’re old, and the heavy cushioned seats fold down. She could’ve torn her skin on a spring.

  “No.” Ginny lifts her hand from her arm to show me three short, deep scratches. They look like fingernail marks. Sounding mystified, she adds, “It was like being clawed by the wind.”

  Sonia. I catch myself licking my lips. “You need stitches. Let’s —”

  “No,” Ginny replies. “It’s fine. I was just surprised.”

  “It’ll scar,” I insist.

  “Give me your shirt,” she counters.

  “Wha —”

  “Your shirt. So I can use it to, you know, apply direct pressure.”

  Embarrassed by the misunderstanding, I’m already unbuttoning by the time she’s finished the sentence. I fold the material as best I can and tie it around her arm.

  “My hero,” Ginny says again. She rises on her toes to kiss my cheek and, losing her balance, her lips land, lingering, on my throat instead. “About that celebration . . .”

  “Go home, Ginny,” I say, moving away.

  She looks stricken, like the child she is. “But . . .”

  I lighten my tone. “I mean, you’d best be getting home.”

  I watch her walk up the aisle, fuming, and disappear out the door.

  Then a disembodied voice — soft, musical, and furious — whispers in my ear, “Murderer, murderer, murderer.”

  Later, at my uncle’s ranch, I walk to his unmarked grave behind the barn. I buried him deep, wrapped in a Mexican blanket. The ground is bare, packed hard. I try to tell myself it’s more fitting that he’s here instead of at the old cemetery in town. Uncle Dean loved this land as much as he was capable of loving anything.

  The grave unsettles me, though. No stone, no cross. He may not have been a good man, but he was my mom’s big brother.

  As dawn approaches, I shake off the guilt and go inside.

  Now, I’m surfing the Web at the dining-room table, drinking microwave-heated blood and researching ghosts. Sonia’s history does track with what I’ve learned so far. Her death was traumatic. Her murderer was never caught. In the spirit world, that’s textbook “unfinished business.” A reason to haunt. And it’s clear that Sonia wants me to know who she is — writing her initial and giving me the diary are clear enough hints.

  According to the newspaper article, though, Sonia was a sweetheart. She used to teach Sunday school and run errands for her elderly neighbors. A quick skim of the diary — peppered with initials — confirms that she was a good-hearted girl with loopy handwriting and typical teen angst: homework, a boy (“D”), a rival girl (“K”). She adored Elvis (“E”), had a kitten named Peso (“P”), and collected toys at Christmas for the poor.

  Maybe Sonia thinks I’m a threat to Ginny, and she wants me to know she’s onto me. I’m not sure why she attacked Ginny, though. Maybe in her ghostly state, Sonia’s confused. Or maybe she’s trying to protect Ginny by scaring her off.

  I guess there’s always the possibility that the Old Love is home to more than one ghost. Katherine, the girl who went missing, is probably K. According to the diary, she and Sonia didn’t get along in life. But there’s no hard evidence of more than one entity, and the singing voice that lead me to Sonia’s diary in the break room matched the accusing one that whispered “murderer.”

  Besides, how many dead people could possibly be hanging around the place?

  In any case, I can’t overlook the lipstick message or the fact that Ginny was injured. If I can’t somehow convince Sonia (or whomever) that I’m not dangerous, I’ll need to force her out. Either that or my effort to resurrect the Old Love is over.

  The question is, how? I’m in no position to be calling a minister or priest.

  Worse, the ghost who spoke is right. I can be lethal. I have killed once before.

  I take another swig of blood and notice that my caller ID is blinking. Ben Mueller. He didn’t leave a message.

  Why would Ben call here? Does he seriously think Ginny came home with me last night? It’s not like I’ve got any kind of rep with girls. Then again, he knows Ginny better than I do, and considering the way she kissed my neck . . .

  Still, calling after the way they fought earlier, that’s stalker behavior. Maybe Sonia’s right to fret Ginny’s safety, only she’s worried about the wrong guy.

  The following evening, patrolling the theater hallway, I don’t hear any singing. I don’t step into a cold spot. I don’t see a fresh letter S written anywhere.

  Today I was the one who fetched refreshments. I also made some calls, ordered a regular shipment of candy, popcorn, and Coke. Tonight I have to put Sonia to rest.

  Ginny comes bounding into the lobby at 7 P.M. sharp. She’s wearing a different white shirt, its sleeves down and buttoned at the wrists.

  “How’s your arm?” I ask from the concession stand.

  Ginny shrugs. “It looked worse than it was.”

  “And Ben?” I press. “Has he bothered you again?”

  She glances at the front doors. “Not today.”

  It’s then that I hear Sonia whisper “murderer” in my ear again.

  “No!” I exclaim. At Ginny’s expression, I add, “Not you.” I run a hand through my hair, frustrated. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to leave. We’re not opening tonight. There’s . . . Someone’s here. This is going to sound crazy, but she’s a —”

  “Ghost?” Ginny raises her scratched arm. “Yeah, I already figured out that much. And personally, I say we exorcise the bitch.”

  Wow. That was the last reaction I would’ve expected. I can’t help admiring Ginny’s bravery, though. Maybe we could have a future after all, if we’re willing to fight for it.

  I glance at my mom’s Bible, wrapped in a kitchen towel, on the concession counter. I don’t know whether I’ll burst into flames if I touch it. I don’t know what I’m doing at all. Even though Sonia lashed out at Ginny, I can’t help having mixed feelings about taking her on. After all, I’m no innocent, and by all accounts, she used to be.

  “Seriously, let’s do it now.” Ginny takes a step in my direction, only to be violently shoved back by a whirlwind, a fierce wall of air, separating us.

  Candy and cups fly off the counter, splattering Coke. A bloody slash appears on Ginny’s forehead. The crystal chandelier shakes and sways.

  “Sonia!” I shout, trying to reach Ginny. “Sonia, please! Listen to me! You’re making a mistake! Don’t you see? You’re hurting her!”

  “Murderer!” returns Sonia’s voice, this time louder than mine. “Murderer!”

  “I —” Do I have to admit it? Is that what it’ll take? “I’m . . .”

  Ginny is knocked onto her back. She struggles like she’s being choked by invisible hands. She kicks with both legs. Then she’s lifted, spun, and dropped again.

  I reach back for the Bible, letting go as pain flashes across my fingertips.

  I don’t understand. Sonia knows that I’m the monster. Why target Ginny, not me?

  For a split second, I wonder if Sonia is jealous, if the girls are fighting over me. But then Sonia wails, “murderer, murderer!” again.

  “You’re right! Sonia, you’re right!” I never intended to kill my uncle, even though sooner or later, he probably would’ve killed me. I just wanted to become stronger, strong enough to protect myself. I didn’t know that the blood lust would come with that strength. I hadn’t gained control of it yet. “Sonia, stop! Please! Punish me!”

  I’m resigned to face her judgment when Ben tears into the lobby from the service hallway. He has a battle-axe in one hand and — dear God — the decapitated heads of Ginny’s parents, by
the hair, in the other.

  Ben tosses them to the red carpet. “Howdy, Ginny!”

  Has Sonia possessed him? Has he lost his mind?

  Ginny is on her knees, her head bent, her hands covering her face.

  She’s an easy target.

  “Murderer, murderer, murderer!” Sonia charges again.

  Ben hesitates, his gaze searching for the speaker.

  “Sonia!” I duck a box of Milk Duds that whizzes by. I want to help. I need to, but the supernatural wind is holding me back. “Let her go! He’ll kill her!”

  Ginny looks so small, huddled on the red carpet. We’ve known each other only a couple of days, but she’s brought sunshine into my life and made me feel like I belong in the glow. It’s not love. It’s the hope of love. But it’s the closest I’ve come to it since I was ten years old. If Ginny wants me, how can I be a monster?

  I reach for the Bible again and hold it over my head, ignoring the pain. “In the name of . . .” I raise my voice, start again. “In the name of the Father, the Son —”

  With a roar, Ginny raises her face. Her mask of innocence melts away, and I see her for what she is. Undead. Demonic. Like me, a vampire.

  I drop the Bible, clenching my blistered hands. “Ginny?”

  Ben looks from her to me, like he’s trying to figure out whose side I’m on.

  “I was going to tell you,” Ginny says, her voice pleading. “When your profile showed up on the system, I thought it was a sign.” Her shoulder jerks, struck by the ghost. “I want the kind of love that lasts.”

  The system. “Love That Lasts.” She’s talking about the blood dealer’s matchmaking service. Ginny must have the same supplier.

  “Sonia!” she screams. “Don’t you have anything better to do? You were a loser in life, and you’re still a loser now. I told you this town would be mine someday!”

  “Murderer!” Sonia replies. “Katie, murderer!”

  So, Ginny was the one who killed Sonia. Sonia was never trying to scare her off, to protect her from me. When Sonia said “murderer,” I wasn’t the one she was talking about. Ginny had been Katie, Katherine, the girl whose body was never found.