The Stories: Five Years of Original Fiction on Tor.com

by Various

  Just like that, I woke up in my own bed, looking up at the pterodactyl flying above, and the little biplane next to it, and the zeppelin, and Mince the dragon, and the fuzzy puppet bat that was bigger than the dragon and the pterodactyl put together. Dad had helped me hang all those guys from my ceiling. I usually fell asleep deciding who was fighting who.

  I could tell by the light shining sideways on them that it was morning.

  I grabbed clothes and headed to the bathroom to pee and dress.

  When I took off my pajama shirt, I saw bruises on my arms like bony fingermarks, and just like that all my blood whooshed somewhere like my feet, leaving me dizzy.

  “Steady,” said Mrs. Jernigan, appearing behind me in the mirror. She looked like her teacher self, with a beige sweater over a brown dress, and thick glasses, her hair back in its too-tight bun. Only, instead of her usual glare and scowl, she looked almost…nice. “Steady, Jack.”

  “What happened?” I touched my new bruises. They hurt.

  She sat on the edge of the tub. I turned around and looked at her straight. “You know you’re a special boy,” she said.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said, sarcastically. Special was my fourteen-year-old sister Amy, who could play the flute like somebody on a record, and got straight As. Me, I did a half-assed job on schoolwork and tried to avoid notice.

  “Come on, Jack. You can see things other kids can’t. Like me, for instance. Ever notice how no one else can see or hear me?”

  “Of course,” I said. That had totally bugged me.

  I had tried talking to Mike about it after Mrs. Jernigan died. He just laughed at me, and then he started avoiding me.

  And all the time, Mrs. Jernigan was nagging at me. “Do your homework, stand up straight, don’t sass your mother, stop whispering in class. Eat your vegetables. Stop sniffling. Don’t burp like that. It’s disgusting.” She was a total pain.

  “And nobody else sees the shades around us,” she said now.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said. I’d been seeing shadows in the air when there was no one to cast them since I was little, before I could even talk about it. And pretty soon after I learned to talk, I learned not to talk about that. Amy shut me down. She kept punching me or telling me to shut up when I mentioned the shadows. She spooked easily, and she was lots bigger and stronger than me.

  “You’re special,” Mrs. Jernigan repeated. “More sensitive to the dead, and more susceptible to the entities that drift around the human realm and might do you harm.”

  “Great,” I said. The good news just kept on coming.

  “It is great,” she said, “if you look at it from the right angle.”

  “Which angle is that?” I asked.

  “The angle where you look at me.”

  “No offense, Mrs. Jernigan, but looking at you isn’t that fun. Although in the dream, you looked—different.”

  “Did I?”

  “Oh yeah.” If she hadn’t been helping me, I would have been so scared of her. That combo of screaming red witch and demon. Kind of how I used to see her before I ran into real nightmare creatures.

  “I’m not talking about how I look,” she said, then frowned and adjusted her glasses. “I’m talking about what I can do for you.”

  “Aside from nag me, and watch me when I wish you wouldn’t?”

  “That’s right,” she said.

  Before she could say anything else, Amy pounded on the bathroom door. “Jack! You better get your ass out of there. You’re already late, you little jerk.”

  I finished dressing, covering up the evidence of my dream adventure. If I had real bruises, had that hole in the ground been real, too?

  I sort of got what Mrs. Jernigan had been saying. I could look in her direction and see someone who had protected me from that.

  I picked up my second ghost later that day.

  Shades were constant in certain locations, like the two kids who had died in a car crash at the crosswalk on Fourth and Bethel, and the shadows in the alley behind the Blue Goose Tavern, where I guess some homeless guys had died of cold, and shades in the cemetery. Some shades were really faint, and some were fresh and dark.

  Some weren’t stuck, but followed people around, or seemed connected to things that moved, like cars and trains.

  Some of the shades had colors in them and looked more like people. Those were the ones I’d been ducking since I learned to walk.

  Although I remembered one shady fady lady who had hovered near my bed when I was really little and told me all kinds of strange stories I couldn’t understand at first, and later when I could, I realized they were kind of scary, although the kids in the stories sometimes survived. She wouldn’t come in my room if Mom or Dad were there reading me to sleep. Sometimes I preferred my parents’ stories, and sometimes I wanted Vo-Ma’s. She left, though, when I was about four, and I never knew why. Mom didn’t understand what I was crying about.

  I was walking past the 7-Eleven on my way home from school, without having finished my discussion with Mrs. Jernigan (we didn’t talk in public, a rule she came up with early on when I got in trouble with Ms. Arpel, Mrs. Jernigan’s replacement, for talking to myself), when my second hedgehog ghost hooked on. I was looking toward the lighted windows of the store, thinking about Coke, thinking I didn’t have enough money to get one, when a man standing just inside the double window doors came out, heading for me, although I didn’t see the doors open or close, and there was no jingle from the bell.

  He was a tall guy with short, spiky, bleached blond hair, an eyebrow piercing, black pointy-toed boots, striped black-and-white pants, and a white shirt with a big red stain over his chest. I wasn’t even sure he was dead when he walked over to me, although I couldn’t look away from that bloodstain on his shirt even enough to see what color his eyes were (gray-green, I found out later).

  “Hi,” he said to me. “You’re strangely attractive.”

  Before I could even ponder this, Mrs. Jernigan asked, “What do you need?”

  That was when I knew something strange was happening. She didn’t talk directly to people around us, though she sometimes muttered mean things about them, or mean funny things, which made me laugh for reasons live people didn’t understand and resented.

  “My mother doesn’t know what happened to me,” said the guy. “She’s been losing her mind in bits, and I couldn’t call anyone to take care of her before this—” He waved at the stain on his chest, and frowned, only it was the kind of frown with sad eyes that meant he was trying not to cry, an expression I had never seen on a grown man’s face before. “I don’t—“

  “Come,” said Mrs. Jernigan. She held out her hand, and the blond guy took it. I felt an intense chill on my back, then a kind of snap-suck, then a shudder, and the new guy was part of me.

  And also behind me. Mrs. Jernigan had been like that at first, too—stuck behind me so I only saw her in the mirror—but then she got a little looser and could move around near me so I could look her in the face.

  “This is Jack Wronski,” Mrs. Jernigan said, “and I’m Betty Jernigan.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said the new ghost. “Roger Quicksilver. Jack, what are you?”

  “Weird,” I said.

  “But you—But I—You’re the first live person I’ve seen since this happened who—“

  “Jack is special,” Mrs. Jernigan said.

  “Oh, please,” I said.

  “He’ll make some calls for you,” Mrs. Jernigan said.

  Which bugged me. How much more of a pain could she be, telling strangers to hook on to me, and introducing me, and then telling strangers I’d do stuff for them, all without even asking me?

  “Jack, would you do that?” Roger asked.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said. By this time I was home, climbing the steps up to our front porch. I stamped my feet and scraped the bottom of my shoes on the outdoor mat, the one with stiff bristles that got the mud off. “Now shut up until I get upstairs, okay?” I unlocked the door and walk
ed in. The foyer was dark, but light came from down the hall toward the kitchen and Mom’s studio. “I’m home,” I yelled.

  “There’s a snack on the kitchen counter for you,” Mom yelled back from the studio. I went in and found a plate with carrots and celery and a sliced apple on it. Great. Just what I craved through that long stretch of school after lunch, when I got more and more starving. I grabbed the plate and ran upstairs. I picked up the phone handset off the upstairs hall cradle as I passed. I took everything into the bathroom and closed and locked the door.

  Then I stood in front of the mirror so I could see Roger again, a black, white, red, and bleached-blond vision against the petunia-spattered shower curtain. Mrs. Jernigan settled on the closed toilet beside me.

  “When did you die?” I asked Roger. Mrs. Jernigan had taken a couple of days to get color back after her smoky start, and at least that long before she started talking.

  “I’m not sure. What’s today?”

  “Thursday.”

  “It was Monday when I headed for work and stopped at the Seven-Eleven for coffee. Oh, my poor mother.” His face twisted again.

  I got a notebook and pencil out of my school backpack and set them on the counter. “Who do I call?”

  “Mrs. Rivera, she’s Mom’s caretaker during the day.” He told me a number and I wrote it down.

  “What am I gonna say?” I asked Mrs. Jernigan.

  “What’s your mother’s name?” Mrs. Jernigan asked Roger.

  “Helen McFarlane.”

  “Put the phone on speaker,” Mrs. Jernigan said.

  I dialed the number Roger had told me and pressed the speakerphone button. A woman answered.

  “Is this Mrs. Rivera?” I asked.

  “Who is this?”

  “You don’t know me. I’m a friend of Roger’s.”

  “Roger,” she said, and started crying.

  “She knows,” I mouthed to Roger in the mirror. He nodded.

  “Is Roger’s mom okay? Are you taking care of her?” I asked.

  “They took her away. She’s not safe on her own, and I can’t stay with her round the clock,” she said.

  “Has she seen her?” Roger asked.

  “Have you seen her? Is she okay?” I asked.

  “Who are you, again?” Mrs. Rivera said.

  “Do you know where they took her?” I asked.

  “I got caller ID. Your name is Wronski and I have your number, kid. You quit bugging me or I’ll call the phone company and report you.” She hung up.

  “Who else can Jack call?” Mrs. Jernigan asked.

  Which I guess I could have asked, only I hadn’t thought of it yet, and I was irritated by Mrs. Jernigan again.

  “My sister,” said Roger slowly, “except she hasn’t spoken to me since I came out two years ago, and she moved away so she wouldn’t have to take care of Mom. Other than that, I don’t know who.”

  “Well, this last call worked out so well,” I said. “Might as well try.”

  Roger gave me the number, and I dialed it and switched on the speakerphone. “What’s her name?” I asked as the phone rang.

  “Debbie,” said Roger. “Debbie McFarlane.”

  “McFarlane residence,” said a woman’s voice. “How may I help you?”

  “Is Debbie there?”

  “Deborah. Speaking,” she said.

  “Hi,” I said, and didn’t know what to say next.

  “Tell her you’re Roger’s friend,” said Mrs. Jernigan.

  But if she wasn’t speaking to Roger—I shrugged. “I’m a friend of Roger’s,” I said.

  “Why are you calling me?” she asked.

  I looked at Roger in the mirror, and Mrs. Jernigan on the toilet.

  “Did you know Roger’s dead?” I asked before they could give me another idea.

  “What?” It came out on a huff of air. Then a kind of strangled choking sound, and then some sobs.

  I sagged against the edge of the bathtub and held the phone in my lap, listening to a stranger cry miles away from where I was. I so didn’t know what to do next.

  “Roger’s dead, and he’s worried about his mom,” I said at last.

  “What?” she said, and sniffled. “Is this a prank call?” Now she was getting mad.

  “No,” I said. I swallowed. “I know this sounds weird. I’m sorry. I’m new at this. Roger got shot on Monday at work—“

  “I was getting coffee at the store on my way to work,” Roger said.

  “Sorry. He stopped in a store to get coffee and got shot. And I see ghosts, and he’s here, and he’s so worried about his mom. Mrs. Rivera wouldn’t tell us where they took her.”

  “What?” said Deborah. “What? Are you insane?” Then she hung up.

  I punched the Off button on the phone and shrugged at Roger in the mirror. I felt tired and sad. And weirdly alone for someone in a small room with two other people.

  Someone pounded on the bathroom door. “Jack, what are you doing in there?” Amy yelled. “What is it with you and the bathroom? Are you on the phone? I need it!”

  “I’m sorry, Roger,” I muttered. I unlocked the door and handed the phone to Amy. Leaving the plate of fruit and vegetables on the counter, I grabbed my notebook and backpack and headed for my room, towing my ghosts. What with the nightmare, I hadn’t slept well the night before. I was starving, I had new ghost trouble, and all I wanted was a nap.

  “But I—” Roger said, and “Shh,” said Mrs. Jernigan, and then I was on my bed below all my flying things, and I fell asleep. No dreams.

  Mom woke me at suppertime. When I sat up, I saw Roger and Mrs. Jernigan sitting on my desk. I lifted one shoulder and then the other. The two spots where I connected to them were still cool and tingly, but now Roger had a longer leash. He still looked sad, but not like he was about to cry.

  “We’ve had a nice talk,” Mrs. Jernigan said. “We’ll work something out.”

  “Good,” I said, and went downstairs.

  I knew they were still with me, but I guess Mrs. Jernigan taught Roger some ghost tricks, like going invisible, and getting farther away from me. They stayed quiet and unseeable during dinner and the two hours of TV Mom and Dad allowed me and Amy if we’d finished our homework, which I hadn’t.

  Back in my room at curfew, Mrs. Jernigan appeared long enough to tell me she’d be watching my dreams, and then she faded.

  The next day my ghosts kept their distance and talked quietly to each other. When I got home, Mom said I had a phone message from some Deborah, and who was she?

  “She’s my friend Roger’s sister,” I said.

  “Who’s Roger?” asked Mom.

  “A guy I know,” I said.

  “Well, she sounded crazy, but she wants you to call her back—if it is you—some kid who called from this number was what she said. It was you, right? She said she thought it was a boy.”

  “It was me,” I said.

  “What is this about, Jack?” Mom asked.

  “I’m trying to do my friend a favor,” I said.

  “You’re not pestering this woman, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Is she pestering you?”

  “Not yet. Mom, could I please call her?”

  She stared at me, then handed me the phone and the message slip. I went into the front hall closet, turned on the light, and made the call. Roger and Mrs. Jernigan were present but not visible, so I didn’t know quite how they squished in there among the coats with me. At least Amy wouldn’t get after me for being in the bathroom if I was in the closet.

  “Mr. Wronski?” said Deborah when she answered.

  “My name’s Jack,” I said.

  “How old are you?”

  “Eleven.”

  She took a big breath, then said, “Okay, Jack. Sorry I hung up on you yesterday. I called a bunch of places trying to track down Roger, and I found out you were telling the truth. I don’t know why you called me—“

  “Roger thought maybe you could find out about his
mom, where she is and if she’s okay. It’s, like, haunting him.” Ha ha, I thought. So few people got my idea of a joke. One of the tragedies of my life. Kind of a small one, considering. I switched the phone to speaker and set it on my dad’s rubber boots. Roger and Mrs. Jernigan appeared, him half in the wall and her half in the door. They both bent closer to listen.

  “Well, okay,” Deborah said. “Mom’s in Green Haven Rest Home now, and it sounds like they’re taking good care of her. She’s confused about why she’s there, but what can you do. I’m flying out tomorrow to check on that and make arrangements for Roger’s—Roger’s—” She stopped talking and sniffled. “I can’t believe I’m telling some kid these things.

  “He’s not the only one you’re talking to, Pidge,” Roger muttered.

  “Roger says I’m not the only one you’re talking to, Pidge,” I said.

  She gasped and dropped the phone. We waited.

  “Tell me your address,” she said.

  I looked at Roger and he nodded, so I told Deborah where I lived and she said she’d see me tomorrow.

  The next day was Saturday. Mike came over to play basketball in our driveway the way he usually did on weekends, his ball and our net. I was so happy to be doing something normal I played a lot longer than I usually did. I was afraid that as soon as I stopped, I’d get into ghost business. And I was glad Mike was coming over again after the freeze he’d given me when I told him about Mrs. Jernigan’s ghost.

  Mike had lunch with me and Mom and Dad—Amy was at the movies—and Roger and Mrs. Jernigan, though he didn’t know that part. They sat on the stove, anyway. The rest of us sat around the kitchen table eating sandwiches we’d put together from ingredients Dad had lined up on the kitchen counter. Dad asked Mike what kind of trouble he’d gotten into lately at school, and Mike had plenty to say, and he made it all funny.

  Mrs. Jernigan had said lots of mean things to Mike while she was alive, but she hadn’t managed to wilt him much, whereas, when she had said stuff to me about not being any stupider than I had to be, I crumpled up and stopped raising my hand in class. She’d eased up on the name-calling since she died. A few times when she muttered something about could I find a dumber way to do something, or did I know what an idiot I was being, I stopped talking to her for a while. I had leverage. The silent treatment worked pretty well, since I was the only one she could talk to who heard her.