“You should write bumper stickers.”
“It wasn’t right of me. Who the hell am I to judge? I’m no better, am I? I rip people a new one every single weekend. So, I’m trying to say I’m sorry.” I mumble a slight acknowledgement, and she adds, “I’m serious. I took it too far.”
“And so did I. Producers. Ratings. Contracts. I’ve been there.”
“Still doesn’t make your disinformation the right thing to do. Anyway. You know what they say about hindsight.” She gulps the last of her chardonnay and motions for the bottle. Instead of refilling the glass, she squeezes it around the neck, brings it to her lips, and tilts her head back. She wipes her mouth clumsily. The alcohol’s effects are creeping up on her like dusk on a slow afternoon. “I didn’t need to be so hard on you. You already had enough of that shit from everyone else. I could make amends somehow.”
I let the silence stretch out a bit, since I don’t know how to respond to that.
Outside, the ocean wind howls under the eaves. Rain drives through the hazy glow of a single street light, sheet after sheet.
Lauren slides her foot across the middle couch cushion, puts it against my thigh, and uses her wiggling toes to get my attention. “One other thing I always wanted to know.”
I scoot to the side, moving my leg just out of her reach. “What’s that?”
“Say you’re a husband and wife on an episode of Graveyard. If you’re absolutely positive your house is haunted, how would you ever have sex in it without feeling like some pervert ghost is watching you? What if he’s off in the corner cranking one out while you get busy? How do people do that?”
During our decade of investigations, the question always plagued me, too. I’d never been brazen enough to ask. It always seemed too personal. “I dunno,” I tell her. “Maybe in the heat of the moment, you forget?”
“You forget?”
“Best I got.”
She turns the bottle up, spills a little out the sides of her mouth, then wipes her lips with a hoodie sleeve. “Maybe you learn to be an exhibitionist,” she says, numbly looking around the living room. “This place is haunted. Did I mention that?”
“Who’s here?”
“My great uncle Gabe lived here for a few years and then died of a heart attack. It has to be him. I can smell his tobacco.”
And then something clicks. At first, it was a flicker in the back of my mind, like an EVP from a weakened spirit many planes of existence away, back when she put her delicate toes up against my thigh.
I could make amends.
How do people have sex when a house is haunted?
This place is haunted.
I shove up from the couch, slamming my knee against the coffee table, and stumble to the side. “Sorry, I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Are you kidding me with this? You’re trying to seduce me?”
“I—seduce you?”
“Is this some kind of long con, Coeburn? You come to me with a sob story about your blind grandma and these black-eyed kids because you knew that’d get my attention, and then what? Bring me back here, bump uglies? You show me a good time, and I finally cave? Nope. The afterglow is a myth! And Ellen probably isn’t even blind, is she?”
Incredulous, Lauren shoots up from the couch and says, “They were real, Ford. They were here. And I came to you for help.” She marches over to me, slams a finger into my breastbone, one, two, three times, accentuating each word. “We. Needed. Help.”
She crosses her arms. “And I’m not trying to get you into bed.” The quiver in her voice betrays her anger. “I just needed you to let me in. I needed you to feed me with—with your soul.”
I feel like I’m on some paranormal soap opera. “Oh, God. Gag me, please,” I say, flinging my hands into the air. “You’ve got an hour. If those little bastards don’t show up by then, I’m gone, and you’re on your own.” I spin on my heels and stomp down the hall.
“Where are you going?”
“To take a piss, if that’s okay with you.”
I jerk the bathroom door open, step inside, and slam it closed behind me.
The small window above the bathtub is open. Flecks of rain flitter inside, carried on wind that shoulders up against the solid shower curtain, billowing the looser folds of purple cloth, and then I remember, I didn’t check in here earlier. I had been too busy trying to get the ancient camcorder set up.
I’m sure it’s fine.
Next to “Hey, y’all, watch this!” I’m certain that “I’m sure it’s fine” ranks high on the list of famous last words.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Chelsea Hopper
Chelsea opens her eyes, having dreamed of claws and fangs. Darkness and the scent of rotten eggs. Always the same.
She hears the scrabble of sharp nails on a hard surface, and for a moment, she believes that her nightmares may have become reality. She gasps and blinks hard, once, twice, and then shakes her head, finally taking stock of her surroundings. She’s in her classroom at school and the noise is Mrs. Hill scribbling on the chalkboard.
Chelsea squints at the writing, manages to make out something about 1492 and Columbus. She needs glasses but hasn’t told anyone, doesn’t want anyone to know she has a weakness. Her parents have told her she’s strong for so long now, it’s second nature. She’s the girl who bears the scars of a demon’s hand. That makes her legendary, according to the magazine her mother showed her, and legendary people aren’t weak. At least she thinks they aren’t.
It also makes her a target to some of the kids her age—not only in her class, but in her entire school. She would be okay if it were only the couple of boys sitting across the room—Logan and Dylan—who pick on her, but there are more of them. Everywhere. All day.
In the hall. At lunch. At recess. In the restroom.
If it weren’t for her best friend Tania, who stands a head taller than everyone else, Chelsea would have ran away long ago.
Tania is fun. Tania is nice to her.
Tania can punch harder than the older boys when it’s necessary.
Tania protects her when she can, but she can’t always be there.
Chelsea hears a hushed whisper to her right.
“Earth to spacegirl. Wake up.”
Chelsea takes her eyes away from the board and sees Tania’s welcoming smile. Tania, with her dark skin, her curly hair, and teeth whiter than bleached sheets; she’s a guardian angel. The sight of her relaxes Chelsea.
She’s had the dreams for ages now, but never at school, never in the middle of the day. And still, when Tania playfully sticks out her tongue, Chelsea knows that she won’t need to check her reflection in the bathroom for fangs and horns. She won’t need to pull open the front of her jeans and check for demon boy parts.
Chelsea’s grandmother loves Tania, calls her, “The safest port in Chelsea’s storm.”
Chelsea isn’t sure what that means. She just likes the sound of it.
From the front of the room, up near the chalkboard, Mrs. Hill says, “Ladies? Attention, please.”
Chelsea and Tania say, “Yes, ma’am,” in unison, then giggle when they both whisper, “Jinx, Pepsi!” at the same time too.
As soon as Mrs. Hill returns to scribbling the white letters on the chalkboard, something hard slams into the side of Chelsea’s head. She shouts, “Ouch!” as a small rock bounces across her desk and tumbles to the floor. To Chelsea’s right, Dylan and Logan snicker, trying desperately to contain their laughter.
Mrs. Hill snaps around as Chelsea rubs her head. When she pulls her hand away, she sees fresh, slick blood on her fingertips.
Mrs. Hill says, “That’s it, Chelsea. Out.”
“But I didn’t do any—”
“Out!” Mrs. Hill points at the classroom door. “Out, I said. Take the empty desk into the hallway.”
“I’m bleeding. They hit me with a rock.”
“And what did you do to provoke them?”
“Nothing! They�
�re being mean!”
Tania shouts, “She didn’t do anything!”
“Quiet, or you’re out, too. You know the rules, Tania. One more detention means you’re suspended, and if I were you, I’d think long and hard about my next words.”
Tania lowers her head, mutters, “It’s not her fault,” under her breath, then goes silent.
“Well, Miss Hopper? I’m waiting.”
Mrs. Hill is older than Tyrannosaurus Rex. All the kids say so. She’s mean, too. She’s never been on Chelsea’s side, thinks she’s a little girl that uses her fame for special treatment. At least that’s what her parents say about her. They tried, many, many times to get her into a new classroom, but that would mean leaving Tania behind. Besides, Principle Cage said no anyway, refusing to give her any kind of special treatment.
Mrs. Hill raises her index finger. “I’m going to count to three. Take the empty desk into the hall, then go see Nurse Miller. Come back when you’re patched up, sit in the punishment desk, and we’ll discuss this later with Principle Cage. If you’re finished with being the center of attention, go. One, two…”
Chelsea stands, feeling blood trickle down the side of her scalp. “Wait until I tell my parents,” she says, then darts for the door when Mrs. Hill glares at her, cheeks flushed with anger. Chelsea yanks the “Bad Chair” with her, not caring when the legs screech across the tile.
Behind her, Mrs. Hill slams the door closed, the tiny square windows rattling in the center.
Chelsea shoves the empty desk up against the beige-tiled wall and marches toward the nurse’s office. She pulls her arms up, cradling herself, trying to hold back the inevitable tears, refusing to touch the blood trickling along her neck.
Her sneakers squeak on the freshly waxed black tiles. They sound like the screams of a dying bird.
At least she gets to see Nurse Miller, who is friendly and treats Chelsea like the normal child she should be, instead of the celebrity that everyone thinks she is.
Nurse Miller says, “Come in!” when Chelsea knocks.
She steps inside, bottom lip protruding, shuddering, barely holding back the emotional dam, the cracks growing wider with each tear that leaks out.
It splinters and explodes when Nurse Miller looks at her with pity and tender concern, asking, “Oh, honey, what happened?”
Chelsea balls up her fists and rubs her eyes through the heaving sobs. She pushes broken words out. “She’s so mean. They all are. I hate it here.”
Nurse Miller is impossibly tall, and to Chelsea, it seems like days pass before the nurse bends all the way down and puts a hand on her cheek. “I know, sweetheart. I know. Let me look at you.” She nudges Chelsea lightly to her left and clucks her tongue, shaking her head, as she lifts the soft blonde hair and examines the wound.
“Is it bad?” Chelsea asks. “Somebody threw a rock and Mrs. Hill blamed me.” Me slides out in a helpless squeak.
“I know, honey. I know.”
I know. That’s what she always says. Chelsea has lost count of how many times she’s been to see Nurse Miller, and even though she’s pretty and nice, and as tall as an NBA basketball player, Chelsea expects to hear, “I know, honey. I know.”
But at least it’s comforting. At least she sounds like she cares.
She asks Chelsea to sit down.
The chair is cold against Chelsea’s legs. She tugs at her shorts, trying to make them longer. She sniffles and wipes her nose, then pushes leftover tears from her cheeks.
Nurse Miller asks Chelsea to be still while she cleans and bandages the wound, but it’s hard.
It hurts. Chelsea has to pee. She wants to run as far away as she can. She wants to burst back into her classroom, grab Tania’s soft, plump hand, and run.
Run as hard as they can down Parker Street, where they would go right onto Larder Road, the one with all the beautiful maples trees along the sidewalk. The leaves are a gorgeous green now, and in the fall, they’ll be full of amazing oranges and reds. She pays attention to the colors around her now more than she used to. That man, the therapist, the smelly one who made her uncomfortable—if he had any good ideas, any at all, it was suggesting that Chelsea should learn how to paint. He had said it would quiet her mind and “give her a creative outlet,” whatever that meant.
Thankfully, her parents loved the idea, and that day, they bought her an easel and paints, brushes and a smock that made her feel like an official artist. They bought her some DVDs, too. It was an entire series about painting pretty landscapes by some guy with hair like Tania’s. Big, curly, and bushy, like a poofy ball on the top of his head.
Chelsea loves watching the videos nearly as much as painting. He seems like a loving, calm soul, with his lilting voice that caresses the very air that his words cross. He seems at peace, unlike Chelsea, and first she would sit for hours watching the masterpieces he created with a simple flick of his wrist and a daub of his sponge. It seemed so easy. Chelsea was sure she could do it.
Her first attempt looked like somebody had dipped two angry cats in paint and then let them roll around and fight all over a canvas. It was so horrible, she almost gave up right there. You’ll get it, her parents had said. It takes time. Practice!
And she did. She kept going. Not because her parents said so, but because for the first time—ever, probably—she felt like her world was as it should be. No demon claws, no haunted house, no children picking on her for being on television before.
Lost in her memories, she’s snatched back to the present with a wince as Nurse Miller touches her scalp with a stinging cotton ball. She jerks away.
“Hold still. One second, sweetheart. You don’t need stitches, but it’s a pretty nasty cut. Honestly, I can’t believe that Mrs.—never mind. It’s not my place.”
“Tell me,” Chelsea pleads.
Nurse Miller is silent for a long time, dabbing at the cut, pushing Chelsea’s hair out of the way, and breathing hard through her nose. Finally, she says, “Do you know what secrets are, honey?”
Chelsea almost giggles. What a silly question. “Uh…yeah? Duh.”
Nurse Miller does chuckle. “I know you know. Just checking. I shouldn’t even be telling you this—Chelsea, listen to my words, please.”
Chelsea sees that familiar look of pity in the nurse’s eyes, along with something extra in her gaze. Anger, it feels like, and she hopes that the nurse doesn’t think she did something wrong, too.
“Pinky swear me,” Nurse Miller says.
“Okay.” Her tiny finger is swallowed by the massive pinky. It’s fleshy and comforting.
“You may not—really, I can’t believe I’m telling you this. This is our absolute secret, okay? Remember you pinky swore.”
Chelsea fakes a serious sigh. “Okay, sheesh. I promise and you can break my pinky if I tell.”
Nurse Miller inhales deeply and lets her shoulders slump. Chelsea smells old coffee on her breath, but that’s fine. It’s a comforting scent, like when her dad kisses her before he leaves for work each morning. “Here goes. The only thing I’ll say is, you may not have to put up with Mrs. Hill for much longer. There have been plenty of…complaints. That’s it. Lock it up, throw away the key.”
Chelsea jumps up from her chair, feeling the skin of her scalp pull against her small bandage. It hurts, and yet, she’s so excited, it doesn’t matter. This is like a birthday and Christmas all coming together at once. “Holy cow! Really?”
Nurse Miller tries, unsuccessfully, to hide a smile. She stands, going up and up, higher and higher, like a construction crane towering a hundred feet over the ground, like the one Chelsea saw downtown last week. The smile remains even though she pretends to sternly shake a finger. “Not a word, you understand? I’ll have that pinky mounted on my wall.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Chelsea salutes her. It seems like the right thing to do.
“Not even your parents, and I’ll probably regret that I ever said anything. You needed some good news, huh? Everybody does once in a—”
Beside them, the door to the small infirmary slams open with enough force to shake the boxes of bandages and bottles on the nearby shelves.
Mrs. Hill storms inside, her bony, claw-like hand gripped tightly around Tania’s arm. Chelsea gasps when she sees so much blood coming from her friend’s nose.
“This one,” Mrs. Hill says between clenched teeth, shoving Tania forward. “Her, too. As soon as they’re both cleaned up, send them straight to Cage’s office. Never seen such lack of respect.” Mrs. Hill flings her arms in the air and swishes out the door, her black skirt fluttering as she goes.
Tania smiles, showing off her blood-stained front teeth. “I got them both for you,” she says. “I got them good.”
It’s nice, what Tania did for her, but look at what those boys did to her friend.
Chelsea thinks about the dark creature in her dreams, and almost wishes it wasn’t a nightmare.
She might ask it for help.
Just this once.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Mike Long
The exterior of the library is insanely quiet, which seems off to me, and like a hilarious summer-movie pratfall, I walk straight into the sliding glass doors that don’t open on my approach.
I stumble to the side, momentarily dazed and confused. “What the hell?”
Dakota asks me if I’m hurt, then breaks into a grin that she had no chance of hiding. She chuckles and puts her hand over those perfectly lush lips and stunning white teeth. I have to laugh too because, of course, I hadn’t been paying attention, instead choosing to focus on my lovely cohort.
Glancing down, I note the small sign indicating the library won’t open for another hour.
“What? Not until ten?”
“Maybe they think people don’t read early?”
I cup my hands around my eyes and try to peer through the tinted glass doors. “I see someone in there already. Is he working?” A thin guy with horn-rimmed spectacles—really, you can’t call them anything else than that archaic term—walks by pushing a cart full of books, I.D. lanyard dangling from his neck. He looks over and sees us, offering an apologetic frown as he taps his wrist, then holds up both hands, fingers splayed.
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