by Glass, Debra
A chill raced up my spine and a split second afterward, Mr. Stella gave a high pitched meow.
“Okay, I guess it’s time to let you out.” I kneeled to spring him from the carrier. His green-eyed gaze met mine as if he wasn’t sure about this strange new world. He gingerly put one black paw onto the hardwood floor and then the other before he stepped out and subsequently bolted underneath a bookshelf.
“Wren?” I heard David’s voice from the landing.
I turned.
He gave me that pitying but encouraging smile he’d been flashing me ever since the accident. “We thought you might like this room to the right. It has a bathroom and its own balcony.”
“Okay.” I sounded unenthusiastic. But as I walked toward my room, that same overwhelming sense of anticipation came over me again.
Ignoring the niggling psychic sense, I discovered my room actually consisted of a series of rooms. A smaller hallway served as an entry between two bedrooms which opened out onto one of the balconies I had seen from the driveway. I pulled open the heavy wooden door and peered through the old screen at the gently sloping hills that rolled against the backdrop of bright, fall-colored treetops.
A nice breeze rustled the golden leaves in the giant oak outside so I decided to leave the door open and let the upstairs air out a little.
My actual bedroom looked as much like something out of a museum as the rest of the house. The faded wallpaper bore an overly large, out of fashion print. A four poster monstrosity of a bed took up most of the space. Its thick, carved posts supported a heavy looking tester canopy lined with garish, green fabric knotted into a rosette in the center. The bed sat so high off the floor, I’d need a step ladder just to crawl into it at night.
Maybe Mom and David would let me exchange it for something a little more modern after everyone settled in.
A tall desk with a glassed-in bookshelf and a little flip-down surface to write on rested in one corner. Yet another piece of outdated, impractical furniture. I sighed. I couldn’t do without my computer desk, my iPod dock and my television. But as much as I longed for brand new furniture, some part of me knew it would be a travesty to change one thing about this room.
I experienced an inexplicable insight that this room was some sort of shrine. But to whom? My gaze drifted toward the long window. Plum colored drapes pooled onto an oval, braided rug.
“What a weird place for a rug,” I mused aloud as I moved toward it, only to stop in my tracks when I noticed the rug partially covered a stain on the floor. My hands shook with an unsettling sense of anticipation as I bent to life an edge of the dusty, brittle rug. Underneath, the floor was a darker color. Almost as if something had been burned into the wood.
I brushed my fingertips over the spot. A shock passed through my body so strong that it knocked me onto my backside. “What the—”
Insight struck.
Blood.
Instantly, I knew the rug had been placed there to cover a bloodstain.
I struggled to fight off the images that rushed into my head. Soldiers. Groaning boys begging for something to ease their misery. The metallic stench of blood and gun powder, horror…
Bile rose in my throat.
“No!” I said, jerking to my feet. “No.” I shook my head, refusing to dwell on it, denying the intruding visions. This was different then my other psychic insights. This was way more than just some telepathic trick or minor intuition. I gasped for breath as the full-bodied, lifelike images flooded my brain.
Blinking away the garish details assailing me, I stumbled through a second doorway. This room looked as if it had been added on after the main part of the house was built. Calm returned. I blew out a sigh. “Much better.”
No horrific images bombarded me here.
No blood stained the floorboards.
Relief washed through my tattered nerves as I leaned against the wall and gulped deep breaths of air. I tried to draw on techniques I had learned from my counselors to return my pulse to normal but it was a good five minutes before I fully recovered.
When I could think clearly again, I stood and took in the starkly barren room. I liked this room. It had a cozy feel. Already, I envisioned this area as my own little den with a couch and a chair. The bathroom opened off to the right. A deep tub perched under the window on its sturdy claw feet. A pedestal sink stood beside a toilet with an old fashioned black horseshoe shaped seat. I grimaced. There wasn’t much room for spreading out my hair dryer and makeup but at least I didn’t have to share space with Ella.
I caught my reflection the mirror and quickly turned away. I didn’t like to be reminded of my angry looking scar—or that my best friend was dead while I still lived.
“Wren!” Mom’s voice rang out from the stairs. “Come show the movers where to put your things!”
I started toward the stairs but stopped when I reached the little hallway leading to my balcony. I’d nearly missed the narrow, white wooden door tucked behind the hall door.
A closet?
Another psychic hunch tore through me. I suddenly knew where that door led.
The attic—and the creepy window.
The hinges groaned in loud protest as I pushed the hall door closed. My fingers shook but I tugged on the toggle handle to the attic door. It refused to budge.
I groaned and reconsidered. This was stupid. What if that man I’d seen was up there?
Logic demanded I walk away, go downstairs and get Mom or David to come to the attic with me. It made no sense to go alone. Not when I suspected some stranger might be homesteading in our house.
But I couldn’t seem to stop myself from pulling on that door handle again. For no sane reason, I was mysteriously drawn to that room. I wanted to get in there. Now. Alone. Despite the voice in my head that railed against it.
Just as the door was about to crack open, my Mom’s called again. “Wren, come on! They’re waiting for you!”
Reluctantly, I turned and hurried down the stairs but I knew I would be back to tackle that door later.
* * * * *
Despite my exhaustion, sleep did not come easily that night. I hadn’t spent a night away from home since the weeks I was confined to a hospital bed back in Atlanta. My new and strange surroundings did not make for easy slumber.
Even the comfortable mattress and soft cotton sheets couldn’t hinder my rampant thoughts. My mind raced. Who’d slept in this room before me? Who else had lain awake in this very bed listening to the unfamiliar creaks and pops of this vast house? Who’d been born here?
And who’d died here?
Certainly someone had. The bloodstains on the floor testified to that. I’d considered mentioning it to Mom but she’d been too busy helping Ella unpack.
An unexpected creak in the floorboards above my head made me jump. Startled, I propped on my elbows to better listen. Before I could chalk the noise up to the age of the house, I heard something that made my blood run cold. The sound wasn’t a creak at all.
It was footsteps! Distinct, one after another, moving from one side of the house to the other.
How long had I been awake? I hadn’t heard anyone coming up the stairs and going into the attic.
I bolted upright in the bed. My gaze shot to the glowing red readout of my digital clock. Nearly four. No one in my family would have reason to be in the attic at this time of the morning. Still holding my breath, I stared up at the knot in the center of the fabric of my canopy and tried to listen in spite of the pounding of my pulse in my ears.
Changing direction, the footsteps plodded toward the front of the house—toward the fanlight.
I tried to swallow but couldn’t. I had seen someone standing at the fanlight after all.
But who?
Shivers broke up and down my arms and legs. I bit my bottom lip so hard it hurt, remembering that I hadn’t been able to open the attic door. Because it was locked from the inside?
Only one thing to do…
I’d never purposely tried to u
se my newfound abilities. I spent most of my time wishing them away. But this time, I had to know the truth. The need to discover who lurked in the attic suddenly consumed me with a ferocity like nothing I’d ever before experienced. Closing my eyes, I willed the images to come to me.
Show me who is in the attic.
Strange vibrations rattled me, tuning the intruder’s thoughts to mine. Without warning, the footsteps turned and started toward me at a quick pace. My eyes snapped open. My stomach tangled into knots as I heard him racing down the attic stairs.
Too terrified to move, I struggled to gasp for a breath, to scream.
The attic door opened with a sharp crack, and my scream died in my throat as his footsteps echoed in the hallway just outside my door. Hard terror gripped me. I clutched the covers in tight fists as he headed toward my room.
Shaking, I gaped into the murky darkness.
And then, he stepped out of the shadows, forming out of them as if he were made of darkness instead of flesh and blood.
I stared. Instead of the dirty vagrant I’d expected, the intruder appeared to be a boy about my age.
He gaped at me, wide-eyed.
Sensing no threat from him, I took in his dark, disheveled hair, his blousing shirt, suspenders, dark trousers and clumsy looking shoes.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
His lips parted. A question lurked in his eyes.
“Who are you?” I inquired again. “What do you want?”
He took one step closer, looking as if he might speak, and then he simply…vanished.
Gone.
Poof.
I blinked. Had I imagined him? Was he part of some dream? No. I was wide awake.
Another realization I didn’t want to consider crept over me like a clammy chill.
Was he a…a ghost?
I stared at the spot where he’d been. My whole body began to tremble. A ghost. I’d seen a ghost. When I could finally drag a breath into my lungs, I screamed.
Footsteps hammered up the staircase in time with my racing heart.
“Wren?”
My shoulders sagged with relief when my mother’s voice called from the hallway.
Ella appeared in my doorway, rubbing her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Drawing her robe together, Mom swept past her and hurried to my bedside. “What’s the matter, Wren? Did you have another bad dream?”
I’d been having nightmares since the accident. Mom always referred to them as bad dreams but they were real, terrifying, sweat-inducing nightmares. This had not been one of those. Not even close.
While Ella lingered in the doorway, Mom sat beside me and stroked my hair off my face. Even in my terror, I noticed how careful she was not to brush her palm over my scar.
My gaze moved from the spot where I’d seen the ghost to my mom. I wanted to tell her the truth. I really did. But something stopped me from uttering the words. I couldn’t confess what I’d seen. How could I be sure he was real? How could I be certain I hadn’t imagined the whole thing? Maybe I really was crazy. Or maybe this was my punishment for killing Kira. If that was the case, what good would it do to tell Mom? Why should I worry her even more than I already had? How much did I want to put my family through?
Dumbly, I nodded. “Yes. A nightmare.”
“Are you all right, now?” she asked.
“I’m fine. Sorry I woke you.” I snuggled down onto my side. I pulled my feather pillow closer and rested my cheek against the cool cotton.
Mom gave me a pat on the shoulder and stood. She padded toward the door, pulling Ella with her. “Back to bed, Ella.”
Their footsteps retreated down the hall and I resisted the urge to call out to them to come back. I flipped onto my back and stared at the ceiling.
The ghost had vanished but one thing was certain.
My house was haunted.
Two
Bleary-eyed, I rushed to get ready for my first day at school, taking extra care to cover my thick, red scar with concealer. I styled my hair so that it fell across my cheekbone. My efforts were in vain. I could hear the whispers already.
She’d be pretty if she didn’t have that scar.
What happened to her?
Oh, how sad!
They’d pity me.
They would never know the truth. I deserved this scar, this ugly face.
Mom had wanted to let us get settled in the new house for a few days before we started school but David thought it best if we didn’t miss anything.
Apparently, he’d forgotten what it was like to be a senior. Once you’d made it this far in your tenure as a student, teachers made sure you got that coveted sheepskin at the end of the year. Besides, making decent grades had always come easily to me and despite everything else, my average had never faltered.
Yawning, I dragged the sheet and quilts up to the pillows in a half-hearted effort to make up my bed. I hadn’t gone back to sleep after seeing the ghost. Instead, I’d tried to convince myself it was all a dream.
But if it wasn’t a dream…
What if my house really was haunted?
A foreboding chill crawled up my spine. Realizing I shared my space with a ghost was scary. At the same time, I found the idea wildly intriguing.
Since the accident I’d thought a lot about those souls I’d seen on the Other Side but I hadn’t given much thought to spirits who lingered here, watching us.
Intuitively, I realized thinking about him was the magic that had drawn him to me. It was as if he’d heard me trying to get a read on him.
“Wren!” Mom’s called from below. “You’ll miss the bus!”
I closed my eyes.
The bus.
I cringed. No self-respecting senior rode the bus, especially with a shiny new Jag sitting in the driveway. But even though the traffic here was nothing like driving in Atlanta, I still didn’t want to get behind the wheel.
Slinging my backpack over one shoulder, I hurried out my bedroom door, but slid to a stop when I noticed the attic door ajar. Chills raised the fine hairs on my arms. Yesterday, I couldn’t pull that door open with all my might. And yet, it stood open now.
I reached for the knob. What was I doing? Daylight evidently had no power over a ghost. I trembled with the knowledge that any second, I might see him again.
Oddly, it wasn’t fear that possessed me. It was fascination.
“Wren! Hurry!”
With a sigh of frustration, I released the temporary spell of curiosity that had come over me. There wasn’t time to explore the attic. Best not to dwell on the ghost who haunted my house.
For now at least.
Instead, I hurried down the stairs where Mom waited for me. “You don’t want to be late for your first day at the new school.”
I shrugged and muttered a good-bye before following Ella out the front door, past my parked, neglected Jaguar and down the long driveway to meet the school bus.
Was he up there, watching me?
Unable to resist the urge to look back, I turned and squinted at the fanlight. Sunlight glanced off the wavered panes making it impossible to tell if I saw a person—or a ghost—or even anything at all.
Disappointment sifted through me and I realized I wanted to see him again.
Air brakes hissed, shattering the country silence. Ella’s feet churned as she ran down the gravel drive. Tearing my gaze away from the fanlight, I followed her, noticing with chagrin that she had on the same goofy outfit she’d worn the day before.
Even though I quickened my pace and followed Bozo Jr. toward the waiting bus, I dreaded meeting new people. They would all quiz me about my scar. Those too polite to ask would stare and then turn away. Above all, I hated sensing their pity.
Because I didn’t deserve it.
Ella raced up the steps into the bus, wriggling down the aisle, eagerly looking for a girl her age. I climbed into the bus, grateful for the first time in my life that my little sister dressed like a clown. If all eyes riveted to her, no one
would notice me—or my scar.
Unfortunately, a completely vacant seat did not exist. My heart sank as, amid curious stares, I made my way behind Ella toward the back of the bus. She enthusiastically slid into a seat beside a little girl and immediately began introducing herself and pointing out our “mansion.” Exasperated, I blew out a breath.
A blonde girl, seated near the back of the bus, chuckled and scooted toward the window. Her eyebrows raised in question. “Want to sit here?”
Smiling my thanks, I sank onto the spongy seat.
“My name’s Laura,” she said, brightly. “Are you Wren Darby?”
My gaze shot to hers. She already knew my name? I nodded. “How—”
“Oh, I know,” she said. Her genuine smile revealed braces. Dressed in a light pink hoodie and jeans and wearing minimal makeup, she possessed a simple, country-girl prettiness. She was a far cry from the stylishly arrogant Buckhead girls from my old school. “The teachers have already told us about you.”
My stomach plummeted straight down to my black Converse high-tops.
Laura bit her bottom lip and my extra sense told me she thought she’d offended me. “They just told us you were moving here from Atlanta and would be living in the old Polk house,” she said quietly.
This piqued my interest. “Old Polk house? Do you know who lived in it before me?”
“Old lady Polk lived there,” she said as if everyone was aware of that fact. “She was born in that house and she died in that house.”
I stared, trying to think of something to say. Thankfully, Laura liked to talk. Her delightful southern accent was different from the conglomeration of Atlanta accents where nearly everyone was a transplant from someplace else.
The tension melted out of my shoulders as Laura continued. “You didn’t know her?”
I shook my head. “No. I had no idea who owned the house before us.”
“She died about six months ago. I think she was over a hundred years old,” Laura explained.
“Did she live here…alone?” I asked, fishing for a clue as to my ghost’s identity.
Laura nodded and her bright blue eyes widened dramatically. “Old lady Polk didn’t come out of the house for anything. But back when my mom was a kid, she said she remembered Miss Polk being driven around town in a black Cadillac by a chauffeur.”
