The Forest of Shadow and Bones

by Jessica Sorensen

  If I were a normal person, I’d be worried I have a little stalker problem on my hands. But I’m not a normal person. I know the reason the dude’s desperate gaze is boring a hole into the side of my head and why my best friend Eve doesn’t see him.

  Because creeper guy is dead. Yep, full-on no heartbeat, no need to breathe dead.

  “Earth to Sway. Where’s your head at?” Eve waves her hand in front of my face as she leans forward on the bench.

  I jerk my gaze away from the dead dude and force myself to relax. “I was just thinking about my final project for English.” The lie falls easily off my tongue. That’s the thing with being able to see the dead when no one else can. It has required a lot of lying over the years, so much so that I’ve become a big old liar, liar pants on fire pro. “I still haven’t thought of a topic yet, and it’s driving me crazy.”

  Eve shakes her head, sending strands of her short, black hair into her heavily lined eyes. “You always wait until the last minute, yet somehow, you get straight A’s. I don’t know how you do it, but I’m so jealous. Seriously, can we trade brains?”

  I force a smile, pressing two fingers to my temple. If only she knew what she was really asking for… “Trust me; you so don’t want to know what’s going on inside here.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. You’re, like, the most normal person ever. I bet your brain would be a nice change from my crazy.”

  “Think what you want, but trust me; you’re not even close to being crazy.” I tuck a strand of my wavy, long, brown hair behind my ear and dare a glance at the dead guy to see if, by some miracle, he’s left.

  Nope. If anything, he’s taken a few steps closer.

  Knowing the drill, I internally sigh. If I don’t leave soon, he’s going to start pleading with me to help him. I don’t always answer the ghosts, unless they get annoyingly persistent, but it’s still hard to act all chillax when the dead are breathing desperate pleas in my ear.

  After years of dealing with it, I’ve learned it’s just best to wander off alone and hope they give up and go away. And if they don’t, then I have a little chat with them. Chatting with the dead is the worst, though. They’re so confused, and most of the conversation is spent talking in circles.

  I stuff my Oceanography textbook into my worn book bag. “I need to head home and get some work done on my English project,” I tell Eve, pushing to my feet. “I’ll text you later.” I throw a wave over my shoulder then hurry down the sidewalk toward the parking lot.

  The dead guy follows, his bare feet thudding against the concrete as he stretches his bony hand toward me.

  “Wait a second.” Eve quickly collects her books and bag, jumps to her feet, and jogs after me. “We’re still on for tonight, right?”

  “Tonight?” I ask distractedly as the dead dude gets all up in my business.

  She slings her bag over her shoulder, trying to keep up with my pace. “We’re supposed to go to that club. Will invited me, remember? And you said you’d come and be my wing woman.” She crosses her fingers with a grin on her face. “Hopefully, I can work some sexy Eve magic on him”—she shimmies her hips and winks at me—“and he’ll finally, finally ask me out on an official date.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Right. I remember you saying something about it …” My back stiffens as the ghost steps up beside me, his shoulder brushing mine.

  It’s never made much sense how ghosts can physically touch me. Most of the research I’ve done about ghosts stated the dead are rarely able to touch the living. And if they do, the contact is brief and hardly felt. But with me, it’s like touching a living, breathing human. Everyone else, on the other hand, is the opposite. I’ve never felt much of anything from a hug, kiss, or embrace.

  The dead dude’s cracked lips part. “Help … me …”

  “You’re still planning on going with me, right?” Eve asks, her words barely registering in my brain.

  “Um …” I inch away from the dead guy and do my best to concentrate on Eve. “I’m not sure if I can.” Because I’m unsure how long this dead guy is going to be lingering around. “I have a ton of homework, like loads and loads and loads of papers to write. It’s crazy how many assignments teachers pile on at the end of the semester. College is so much harder than high school. Remember how easy senior year was?” I ramble on, barely listening to myself as the dead guy keeps bumping his shoulder into mine.

  Ice spills through my veins with each touch, sending flickering images of the life he lost.

  His family.

  His kids.

  His meaningless nine-to-five job that he hated.

  I can feel his hate and desire to end his life. The loathing is so powerful, so overpowering that I feel like I’m tumbling into a bottomless abyss.

  “Please … help me …” he continues to plead. “I need … help. I need … you to help me.”

  Eve slams on the brakes and snags the hem of my black tank top, forcing me to stop with her. “Nuh-uh. No way. You’re not getting out of this. You pinkie promised you’d go with me.”

  Shit. She has me there. Eve and I have been making pinkie promises since we were eight years old and became best friends. We’ve never broken a promise to each other, even silly ones like going to a club together.

  Both of us come from very undependable families that we lost at a young age, and trust has always been an important part of our friendship. Even eleven years later, we don’t break pinkie promises. If we think there’s a chance we might not be able to follow through with something, we simply don’t make the promise. Normally, I don’t make promises to go to clubs or any other crowded places for that matter. For some reason I’ve never quite figured out why, ghosts seem to migrate to packed, lively places. But Eve caught me while I was distracted, and I mostly unknowingly made the promise.

  “Eve, I don’t know if I …” I trail off as her expression goes kerplunk.

  I feel like such an asshole.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to go. I just …” My gaze flickers to the ghost invading my personal space. “I have a ton of stuff to do. And I have to meet my brother tomorrow, and the last thing I want to do is try dealing with him while I’m hungover … You know how he can get.”

  “So, you’re breaking the promise,” she says flatly. “Wow. I mean, I know you’ve been busy lately, which I totally understand—you have your own life—but I’m really starting to miss my best friend.”

  “I’m still here. I’ve just been—”

  “Busy. I know.” She brushes past me, heading toward the parking lot. “And you’re not here, not really, anyway … because my best friend would never promise to go somewhere with me when she knew she couldn’t make it. You’ve changed. Ever since we started college, you’ve been more distant and tired, and … I don’t know…”—she spins around, looking at me while walking backward—“not present.”

  I open my mouth to protest then stop myself. She’s right. Over the last eight months, I have been distant. But from the time I started classes at UW, my ghostly visits have also increased. Even at night, they show up in my apartment, waking me from sleep. I don’t know whether it’s from the change of towns, my new place, my new life, or if it has something to do with what happened to me the night of graduation after I …

  I shake the approaching horrible thoughts away.

  “All right, I’ll go with you.”

  Eve lets out a squeal. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She stands on her tiptoes and throws her arms around me. “And if you need anything at all, I totally owe you, like, ten favors.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that.” I awkwardly pat her back like I always do whenever someone hugs me. Then I cringe when the dead guy starts poking me in the back.

  Eve steps back with her brows drawn together. “Why did you just cringe like that?”

  I give a half-shrug. “I didn’t realize I did. Maybe it was just a muscle spasm.”

  She eyes me over suspiciously with her hands on her hips. “
What’re you not telling me?”

  A lot of things. “Nothing. You know I tell you everything.”

  She purses her lips, her gaze wandering to my right where the dead guy is pacing the sidewalk.

  For an insane moment, I wonder if she can see him. Maybe she’s been keeping the secret from me, like I have from her, for all these years. The idea makes me feel a drop of relief, but then the relief is quickly doused by guilt. The last thing I’d ever want is for my best friend to have to endure this damn curse.

  I glance over to see what she’s looking at and let out a sigh. Will, the guy she’s had a crush on for months, is playing football under the shade of the trees. He’s shirtless, and sweat coats every inch of his skin.

  “How did I not notice how hot he was in high school?” Eve asks, biting her lip as she watches Will run across the grass to catch the football.

  “Because you were too obsessed with Flynn,” I remind her. And every other guy on the football team.

  While I love Eve to death, she’s always been guy crazy to the point where it takes over her life. It’s led to many unhealthy relationships, and sometimes, I wish she’d just take a break from guys altogether.

  “Yeah, but still, I don’t remember him being so … sexy.” Her eyes track Will’s every movement, and I swear a little bit of drool comes out of her mouth when he rakes his fingers through his damp hair.

  I put my hands on her shoulders and turn her in the opposite direction. “Come on. You can drool over him tonight.” I steer her toward the parking lot, away from Will and the dead guy trailing at our heels.

  “I wasn’t drooling,” she tries to lie with an innocent smile.

  I let go of her shoulders and move up beside her. “Yeah, right. You were so drooling.”

  “I was not. I was just admiring the view, something you’d see, too, if you ever checked a guy out.”

  “I check out guys.” Not a complete lie. But I mostly keep my distance from guys.

  I mean, what’s the point? I can’t be in a relationship that could lead anywhere. If things got serious, and we started spending too much time together, my curse would end up getting in the way. Always does. And it’s not like I feel anything toward the living when they touch me, other than awkward discomfort. And dating a dead guy is a definite no-go zone.

  Eve dramatically rolls her eyes, digging out her keys from the pocket of her shorts. “You so do not. You’ve never even dated anyone. And the only time you kissed a guy was that time in eighth grade when we played truth or dare with Owen and his friends, and that really doesn’t count since neither of you knew what you were doing.”

  I frown at the memory. “Yeah, my first kiss wasn’t as magical as I wanted it to be.”

  She pushes the key fob and the headlights on her car flash. “Of course it wasn’t. You two sat there with your lips pressed together for ten seconds without moving while a bunch of people stared at you.”

  I retrieve my car keys from the back pocket of my cut offs. “And his breath tasted like bad cheese.” And my lips felt numb against his. Lifeless.

  “You never told me that.” She playfully swats my arm. “I could’ve so used that against him when he told the entire school I had herpes.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as the ghost guy grabs my arm.

  “Sorry, I honestly forgot until just now,” I manage to get out.

  She stops beside the driver’s side door of her car. “What else are you keeping from me?”

  I shrug, forcing out a teasing smile. “Not too much. Only the really good stuff.”

  “You’re the worst best friend ever,” she teases with an easy smile.

  Sometimes, I feel like I am.

  “Whatever. You so love me.”

  “Of course I do.” She opens her car door to get in. “I’ll pick you up around nine. You better be ready to have some fun.” She ducks her head to climb in then pauses. “And wear something hot, okay? Not cut off shorts and tank tops.” She gives a pressing glance at my outfit. “From what I’ve heard, this club has a strict dress code.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, but no promises. I don’t have a lot of fancy clothes.”

  “Oh, I know. You and your grunge look.” She shakes her head. “I’ve never fully understood it.”

  I shrug. “It’s just a preference.”

  The truth, though, is that I started wearing a lot of plaids, T-shirts, and holey jeans so I wouldn’t stand out. Flashy clothes meant getting noticed, and I’ve never wanted to get noticed, mainly because half the people who notice me are dead and rotting.

  After I say good-bye to Eve, I head for my car a few parking spaces back, and the dead guy matches my stride, walking beside me as if we’re best friends. Only, instead of talking about clubs and guys, he’s talking about needing help and being lost.

  “Please help. Please. I can’t … I’m so lost … I need to …” He looks around the campus yard, at the leaves on the ground and the trees stretching toward the cloudy sky. “I don’t know how I got here ...” He blinks at me. “I need to get home.”

  I could tell him the truth. That he’s never going home. That he’s dead. And from the images I’ve seen every time he’s touched me, I’m guessing he died by his own hand. But convincing a ghost they’re dead can be tricky.

  Usually, they deny, deny, and deny until my head throbs. And if I do convince them to believe me, they typically react one of four ways: 1) They start to cry and break apart. 2) They ask me for favors, like contacting their family, which I have done before, and it never turned out well. 3) They go into denial mode, which is one of my least favorite reactions, almost as bad as number four. 4) They get angry. And an angry ghost is something no one wants to deal with.

  I assess the man, deciding which of the four ways he’ll react. From the tears in his eyes, my bet is he’ll go all waterworks. I can’t deal with that in public, not without getting gawked at like some loony girl talking to herself. It wouldn’t be the first time that happened.

  Ignoring him, I unlock the car door, climb inside, and start the engine. He doesn’t get inside with me. He simply stands in front of the car, staring at me with wide, hopeless eyes, as if I just abandoned him. I haven’t, though. I know, by the time I arrive home, he’ll likely be there waiting for me.

  Cranking up some music, I press on the gas to drive out of the parking lot. But I immediately let my foot up as the oddest feeling that I’m being watched rises inside me.

  And not by the dead guy.

  No, someone else is out there, hiding in the midst of other people. Someone evil. I can feel it in my twisting gut, racing pulse, and dampening skin.

  I skim the grounds, the benches, the stairs leading to the main office, searching for a darkness out in the sea of living, breathing humans. Nothing pops out at me, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing there. There’s always something out there, whether a ghost or something more sinister that I’ve seen on a few occasions … ever since that horrible night …

  What if one of them are out there?

  My heart slams against my chest as I peel out of parking lot and steer the car toward my apartment complex located about ten minutes away. I drive as slowly as I can, maintaining a speed of ten miles per hour under the speed limit, giving my heart time to settle.

  I manage to make it home in double the time it usually takes, but I don’t get out of the car right away. Instead, I stare up at the sunset kissed sky, silently wishing for a miracle.

  Please, please, please, take my curse away. Please, please, just make me normal.

  But what is normal, anyway? Sometimes, I feel like the world’s view on normalcy might be misconstrued by things people can’t wrap their heads around. Perhaps more people like me exist, people with odd gifts and curses, but they hide their abilities because of fear. Maybe we’re the normal ones, and everyone else is strange.

  From everything I experienced the night of graduation, I know the likelihood of that could be very true.<
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  By the time I hop out the car, a few stars are dotting the greying sky. I make my way across the grass and up the stairway to the third floor, thinking about what I could wear tonight.

  When I reach the second floor, my phone vibrates from inside my pocket. Figuring Eve sent me a reminder-to-dress-sexy text, I wait until I’m walking inside my apartment before checking the message. But the text is from my older brother, Brysen.

  I frown, wishing the dead guy would make a grand appearance in the middle of my living room so I could have a legitimate distraction.

  Brysen: I need you to call me right now.

  It seems like such a simple text, but I know my brother, and no text, phone call, or meet up is ever simple. There are always strings attached, and most of the strings lead to one thing: he wants something from me. Money, probably. And ignoring him will only lead to more messages, more calls, and eventually an unannounced visit.

  Kicking the door shut, I dial his number and put the phone to my ear.

  “Hey,” he answers after one ring. “It took you long enough.”

  “I just got your text, like, ten seconds ago.” I toss my keys and bag onto the sofa and wander into the kitchen.

  “Well, I sent it over a minute ago.” His voice is uneven, anxious. He’s probably coming down from being high and is looking for his next fix.

  “Sorry, it took me so long. I just got home,” I say robotically, opening the fridge.

  “Next time, answer faster. I was getting worried you weren’t going to call me back, and then I don’t know what I’d do.”

  “You know we’re meeting up tomorrow.” I grab a can of soda and an apple.

  “I know, but I need to talk to you now.” His desperate breathing flows through the line. “I need money, Sway … like, really, really bad.”

  I set the soda and apple on the countertop, lower my head, and press my fingers to the brim of my nose. “You always think you need money.”

  “But I really do this time.” His tone is edged in panic. “I’m late on rent, and my car broke down, and I can’t afford to take it to get fixed. And if I don’t get it fixed, then I’ll lose my job.”