by Glass, Debra
His long fingers curled lazily around the bed post. “Determined…as if it suddenly occurred to you that you wanted it above anything else at that particular moment in time and would do almost anything to have it in your possession.”
That about summed it up. But there was an underlying implication in his assessment that spoke to me on another level. I quickly realized the awkwardness of having an attractive guy in my bedroom—even if he was a ghost. “So…you…you can’t read my thoughts?” I asked. I had to know.
When he smiled, dimples deepened at the corners of his mouth. The rigid pose in his portrait had not accurately portrayed just how striking he really was. “No, Wren. I can feel your thoughts but I cannot read them.”
“Is that how you knew I was thinking about you the first night I was here?”
He nodded. “I suddenly knew that you were aware of me. I’d suspected it when you looked up and saw me standing at the attic window.”
The idea that all my wildest imaginings were true sparked delight in my heart. “I did see you.”
Emboldened, he moved closer to where I sat at the head of my bed. Gingerly, he sat on the edge again. I noticed his trousers were made of some sort of gray wool. I’d heard the term homespun before and wondered if his snowy shirt had been made from fabric fashioned from cotton grown on this very land.
“Am I taking too many liberties, Wren?” he asked.
I shook my head, becoming uncomfortable under his steadfast gaze.
He squinted slightly. “Why do you think it is, Wren?” he mused.
“Why what is?”
“Why can you see me?”
The look in his eyes was so sincere, my heart ached for him. “Maybe it’s because I…because I’ve been able to see things before they happen since an accident I had not long ago.”
“An accident?” he asked. “That’s how you got your scar.”
His statement held no condemnation. I was self-conscious just the same. I hated that he’d noticed it but at the same time, I felt relief that I didn’t have to explain it to someone who would gaze at me with pity-filled eyes. Doubtless, he’d seen worse during the Civil War than my stupid scar.
Even given that fact, I’d practically refused to talk about the accident with anyone, even the high dollar therapists to whom my parents had forced me to go. Certainly, I’d never mentioned my ability. Not to anyone! So, I couldn’t believe how easily I confided in a stranger.
Nevertheless, I didn’t want him to know everything that had happened that night.
“This frightens you,” he said. “To talk about your accident.”
I sucked in a breath. He could feel that? I had nothing to gain by denying it so I nodded. “Yes.” And then for some reason unknown to me, I blurted, “I died that night.”
His gaze assessed me. “There are worse things than dying.”
I knew he spoke the truth. Not a day went by that I wished Kira and I could switch places.
“And now you are sad,” he said apologetically.
The fact that he sensed my feelings unnerved me. I’d just as soon not have anyone be able to discern whether I felt happy or sad or afraid or even angry. I didn’t want him to see through me because my emotions revealed far more truth than my thoughts or words.
Not even my mom read me so easily.
An uncharacteristic lump welled in my throat as traitorous tears pooled in my eyes. Holding my breath, I looked away, my gaze fixing on the dark shape of the apple on my dresser.
“Wren?”
The sympathy in Jeremiah’s voice proved to be my undoing. My throat constricted and I couldn’t reply. Instead, I twisted onto my side and dragged the cool, feather pillow up against my chest.
Part of me wanted to be left alone.
Another part of me ached to be comforted, to unburden myself on this spirit who could literally never breathe my dirty secrets to anyone.
Yet in my soul, I didn’t want him to know what a terrible person I was.
I waited for an eternity for him to say something else, to move, to do something. Finally, I blinked the tears away and composed myself. Once I had my emotions under control, I glanced back over my shoulder, fully expecting to see him still sitting there staring.
Disappointment flooded me.
I’d gotten my wish to be alone.
Jeremiah Ransom’s ghost had vanished.
* * * * *
Concentration was out of the question as I sat in my government class peeking at the magazine photo of Jeremiah. My thoughts were consumed with what had happened the previous night. After he’d disappeared, I’d been unable to sleep so I’d scanned the magazine page into my computer and printed a copy of Jeremiah. This way I could keep the magazine safely at home and stare at the printed picture all I wanted.
I still couldn’t believe I’d had an actual conversation with a ghost. The fact that he was dead didn’t bother me as much as the irrefutable truth that I found myself dangerously obsessed with him. Butterflies flitted in my stomach at the remembrance of our conversation. No one save me had seen him since his death. I bit my bottom lip to keep a wistful smile at bay.
Pain suddenly shot through my elbow, ripping me out of my reverie. Briar sauntered up the aisle between the desks. She glanced back and smirked. “Did I bump you?” she asked, feigning innocence. “So sorry.”
Her Emo friends snickered from somewhere behind me. Anger gnawed at me but I managed to keep it in check. Instead, I shrugged. “It’s okay,” I lied and turned my attention back to Jeremiah’s picture.
I’d tried to enlarge the photo but the resolution stunk. Even tweaking the restore old photo feature had not improved it much.
Perhaps today, I’d muster up enough courage to visit the attic. Maybe I’d find other photographs of him in addition to this one. Darkly, it occurred to me that this might be the only image I’d ever have of him. After all, it wasn’t like I could snap pictures of him with my phone as I could so casually with my friends.
My mind raced with questions, none of which possessed an answer. Jeremiah was dead. He wouldn’t be asking me to go to the movies. He would not be sneaking a kiss at my locker between classes. He wouldn’t be renting a tux or a limo to take me to prom.
Squeezing my eyes shut for a moment, I stopped my thoughts in their tracks. What was I thinking?
I was the only person who could see him. If he wanted to talk to someone, it wasn’t as if he had a choice. It was silly of me to think I might mean anything to him other than being the chick that lived in his house more than a century after his death.
And in turn, he could never mean anything to me.
Not really.
Did I want to end up like that crazy Miss Polk who’d lived alone in my house until she died?
“Wren,” Frank whispered.
Startled, I slammed my notebook shut. My gaze collided with his.
“Page sixty-four.” He inclined his head toward the teacher.
Scrambling, I flipped my book open to the correct page. Mr. Daniels droned on, practically reading the material in the book, word for mind-numbing word. Why did teachers feel the need to read to us what we could read on our own? History teachers were the worst.
Despite Mr. Daniels’ best efforts, my thoughts couldn’t be arrested from the ghost with whom I’d had a conversation the night before. Impatient, I watched the clock until the bell rang. Another hour closer.
After packing my books into my backpack, I slung it over my shoulder and started out of the classroom. An overwhelming sense of doom settled heavily in my gut and I suddenly found myself struggling to keep from succumbing to a panic attack. My heart raced. My palms grew damp with perspiration. Despite my efforts to breathe, I couldn’t seem to get enough air. I wiped my hands on my jeans and tried to keep walking but my knees shook so badly, I feared I’d stumble. My breathing quickened dangerously.
For me, panic attacks always portended something horrible.
Trembling, I forced one foot in fron
t of the other as I made my way through the crowd in the hall toward my locker. I gasped for air, drowning in the shoulder to shoulder throng of students. By the time I finally reached my locker, I laid my forehead against the cool metal and tried to focus. But when I did, my panic only worsened.
No. No… I couldn’t have a panic attack right here at school—not on my third day in a new school.
Shaking, I struggled to remember the techniques my therapist had taught me. Slow, deep breaths. Calm thoughts. Count slowly to ten.
One…two…three…
“You don’t look so good, ghost chick.”
My eyes snapped open and I whirled. Briar and her two Goth toadies blocked my way out of the locker row.
I froze.
In her platform boots, she loomed at least three inches taller than me. Her unnaturally red hair, knotted on each side of her head, showcased the piercings along the sides of both her ears.
There was no point in trying to be nice to her or trying to fake her out. Arms crossed over her chest, her stance was aggressive. Challenging. Her black lips stretched into a long, taut line.
The other students were wrong to think Briar only thought she was psychic. So very, very wrong. She did indeed possess the gift and I wondered just how deep her ability ran. My heart sank. I was about to find out.
Her eyes narrowed into vicious slits. Her gaze flicked to the side of me and then back to my eyes. “Don’t bring that haint back to school with you if you know what’s good for him,” she warned. “I know what he did to my car, yesterday.”
My breath stopped in my chest. I wanted to protest or to tell her I did not know what she was talking about but all I could think was that Jeremiah had been with me. But if that was true, how come I hadn’t felt or seen him?
And how had Briar known about him?
“H-haint?” I stammered.
“The ghost. I know you’ve seen him,” Briar said. “And I know you put him up to wrecking my car.”
“No, I—”
One of the toadies’ hands found her hips. “Briar knows,” she said hatefully, her dyed blue strips of hair glowing strangely in the fluorescent lighting.
I didn’t have much experience with bullies. Before the accident, I’d been well-liked at my other school. My initial fear transformed into anger. What right did she have to give me orders? Or to invade my private thoughts? She’d started it yesterday bombing me with her nasty telepathic thought projectiles in the hall. I took a brazen step toward her. “Or what?” Conveniently, I’d forgotten my earlier panic.
Her eyes widened. Her mouth dropped open. She hadn’t been expecting me to defy her. Perhaps she wasn’t as gifted a psychic as I had originally thought.
A wicked smile twisted on her lips. “You don’t know what we do, do you?”
As if on cue, her Goth buddies took a step closer.
The panicky feeling churned in my gut again and I fought not to shrink back from them.
“You should ask around, Wren.” She said my name with such contempt it made me shiver.
The tardy bell rang and she and her entourage spun and stalked away without looking back.
Scrambling, I wrestled with my lock, trying to turn the dial, trying to remember the combination, all to no avail. Just before I admitted defeat, the locker door swung open with a creak.
I sucked in a ragged breath. “Jeremiah?” I whispered but again, I felt and saw nothing that alerted me to his presence. But I didn’t have time to waste. Snatching my book for my next class, I slammed the locker shut and broke into a half-run.
My trigonometry teacher gave me the hairy eyeball when I finally skidded into class so I muttered something about there being a line in the bathroom and then, under my breath, about it being that time of the month and her look softened immediately. I felt bad lying to her but I didn’t want detention during my first week of school.
Trig consumed all my concentration to the point it made my head pound. No chance existed to talk to anyone and besides, none of my new friends were in this class so nothing prevented my mind from wandering back to the encounter with those three witches in the hallway.
Ask around.
Laura had already admitted Briar thought she was psychic. What more was there?
My gut told me there was a lot more and that I should be wary of Briar—not for my own sake but for Jeremiah’s. But how could he be hurt by her? After all, he was already dead. And if he had the ability to put the whammy on her car, then what else could he do?
Still, I couldn’t shake the awful sense of impending doom that gnawed relentlessly at my insides.
* * * * *
Fish sticks.
The odor hit me before I even walked in the double doors to the lunchroom.
My least favorite.
I really didn’t like fish of any kind and thankfully, I could get a salad instead, but that would mean getting in the salad bar line and for some reason, it took the students longer to fix their salads than it did to toss a couple of fish sticks onto their plates.
Craning, I searched the sea of faces for Laura.
“Hey, Wren!” Waylon greeted, sliding in line behind me, bowl in hand. In his other hand, he balanced a plate piled high with fish sticks and crinkle cut French fries all smothered in oozing globs of ketchup and tartar sauce. I wrinkled my nose.
“Uh…hi,” I said. “Have you seen Laura?”
“Laura checked out. Orthodontist appointment or something.”
Disappointment surged. My shoulders sagged.
“Did you get a chance to finish that article?” he asked hopefully.
I flashed him a smile. “Yes. Thanks again. I learned a lot about my house I wouldn’t have otherwise known.”
His pale face flushed with pride. “I thought you’d like it.”
I seized the tongs and filled my bowl with lettuce.
Briar and her two minions strolled into the lunchroom. I flinched.
“What’s up with them?” Waylon asked.
I made a mental note that Waylon could be extremely observant.
“Briar bothering you?” he asked, his posture immediately stiffening as if he was ready to do battle.
I debated. I couldn’t tell him the whole story. He didn’t need to know about Jeremiah. No one did. More to the point, I doubted if Waylon would believe me and I didn’t want to get the reputation as a bigger weirdo than people already thought.
“She…just gives me the creeps is all,” I managed, turning my attention back to building my salad.
“She gives everybody the creeps,” he said, still glaring at the Goth girl.
Pumping ranch on my salad, I glanced up at him. “Why?” I wished he would stop scowling. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing her threats worried me.
“She’s always telling people they’re going to break a leg or be in a wreck or that their dog is going to die.” He loaded a mountain of shredded cheese onto his salad.
She hadn’t predicted anything for me. She’d only told me I’d better not have my haint back at school. Worse, she’d zeroed in on my guilty secret.
“Does…do any of her predictions ever come true?” I asked, moving toward the check out.
“That’s why she creeps everybody out,” Waylon whispered, leaning in so close I detected the scent of some sort of masculine cologne. “Most of the time, her prophecies do come true.”
No surprise to me. Still, her credibility didn’t give her the right to threaten me. What was she going to do? Tell everyone I brought a ghost to school who tinkered with her car?
All I had to do was deny it.
Down deep though, I sensed she’d do far more than that. Still, I couldn’t control what Jeremiah did. It wasn’t as if I had asked him to accompany me to school—or to screw up Briar’s car. He hadn’t brought it up the night before and I really had no reason to believe he’d done it, other than Briar’s bald-faced accusation.
“I…think she has it in for me,” I ventured, fishing
for more information. “I mean, why would I be a threat to her?”
Waylon nearly laughed out loud. “Because you live in the most haunted house in town other than the funeral home.”
My gaze shot to his.
“She’s just a dorcas who thinks she’s the local ghost expert,” Waylon explained.
Waylon was not the simple country boy I’d originally thought. Well-spoken and perceptive, he hid a thoughtful intelligence under his muscled, jock exterior.
Holly waved excitedly from our table so Waylon and I joined her. He kept pace with me although, with his long, thick legs, he could have reached the table in half as many strides as it took me. The table shifted under Waylon’s sheer size when he sat.
“Briar’s giving Wren the stank eye,” he said nonchalantly to Holly and Frank.
Holly smirked and glanced at the Goth table. “She gives everybody the stank eye.”
I shrugged as if I couldn’t comprehend it at all.
Waylon took a bite of the apple he’d picked up. “I told her,” he said, his voice muffled by the food in his mouth, “it’s because she lives in a haunted house.”
“Is it true?” Holly leaned forward in her seat. “Is it really haunted, Wren?”
From across the room, I felt Briar’s eyes boring into me. I wished I knew how to block her—to keep her from reading my thoughts. Unfortunately, I didn’t. I couldn’t even control the few psychic skills I had.
“Yes, Wren, is it?” Waylon asked pointedly. Somehow or other, he’d already scarfed down half his mound of fish sticks.
I searched their gazes. Both seemed genuinely interested and it was on the tip of my tongue to tell them my house might be haunted when Frank rolled his brown eyes.
“There are no such things as ghosts,” he said adamantly.
“You’re just too scientific.” Holly shoved a playful elbow into his ribs.
Frank skirted the jab. “There is no empirical data proving the existence of ghosts.”
“You should see the pictures my dad took at the Shiloh living history last year. There are orbs all around the Bloody Pond,” Waylon defended.
Frank’s expression remained unchanged as he picked at what looked like a pita sandwich he’d brought from home. “Raindrops or dust. Not ghosts.”
