“Ezra told me that you know all about my disorder,” he began.
I nodded. “He told me after the night I first ran into you. I think he wanted me to understand you better… to try to comprehend the reason you’d lashed out.”
“What Ezra doesn’t know is what really started the whole thing. Parry-Romberg Syndrome is an autoimmune disease, and it does appear out of nowhere, but I am almost certain that those ghosts in my house are what started it.”
I sat up straighter, my heart dropping into my stomach as I absorbed what he’d just said. My dad had told me that ghosts seemed to want something from the people they haunted. The books I’d read stated they often had unfinished business. What could they want to accomplish that would make them cause Tate to become so ill?
“What makes you think that?” I asked.
“I first started seeing them a few months before I got sick,” he replied. “There was no warning that I can recall—no death at Baldwin House, no accidents, no other strange events. All of a sudden, one day, they were just there. Like you, I began noticing the rose petals first. Coming and going from my room and other parts of the house, I saw them scattered on the stairs. But nobody else seemed to be able to see it—not even my parents, who came several times to investigate when I would try to show them. One night, I got home late from an away game at another school, and they were waiting for me. The house was dark because everyone was asleep, but I heard them first… this noise that sounded like someone exhaling.”
I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself. “I know the sound.”
Knitting his brow in concern, Tate sat up and unzipped his hoodie. “You cold? Here.”
I didn’t want to deny his act of kindness, so despite being quite warm, I accepted the jacket. It was a mistake of epic proportions, because he smelled amazing—if the masculine scent coming from the fabric were any indication. It made me uncomfortable, even though part of me wanted to stick my nose down inside it and inhale again.
“At first, I thought they wanted to kill me,” he continued, “and I would try to get away from them when they came at me. Over time, it seemed like they just liked screwing with me. It started to piss me off, and I tried everything I could to get them to leave. I read some of that parapsychology stuff, too, you know. All the things they suggested—telling the ghost to leave with authority, burning different combinations of herbs… I even learned from a Wiccan website how to cast a circle. None of it worked. Not long after I started trying to get them to leave, I got sick.”
I gasped. “Do you think they did this to you out of revenge? To get back at you for trying to make them leave?”
Tate shrugged, and then hunched his shoulders. I could tell being without his hood made him antsy. “I used to, but now I’m not so sure. You said something about them having unfinished business?”
“I don’t know a lot,” I replied. “Just what I read and the things my dad told me.”
“Your dad sees ghosts,” he said with an eyebrow raised. “What is he, a medium or something?”
Shaking my head, I sighed. “I don’t know what he is, to be honest. You haven’t heard the talk about him because it started happening around the time you got sick, after my mom died. He sees ghosts all over Wellhollow Springs. For some reason, they seem to only appear to him. He believes they want something—his help in some way.”
“Have you talked to him about this? Told him that you can see them, too?”
Lowering my eyes, I felt the niggling of guilt again. “No. I asked him questions about what he sees and made him think I just wanted to understand him better. I want to tell him, but he doesn’t really like me trying to be involved in this. When I ask him about ghosts, he gets really edgy and tries to change the subject. I believe he thinks there’s something wrong with him, and he’s worried it’ll happen to me, too.”
“Maybe it would make him feel better to know it’s not just the two of you,” he offered. “It certainly made me feel a little less crazy to know you could see them. You were the first person to step foot inside that house to see them in two years.”
“Not yet,” I hedged. “I’m not ready for him to know.”
Tate nodded. “I understand. But I was thinking…”
I leaned forward to search out his gaze when he fell silent. “What?”
He turned to look at me. “I’m tired of living in fear in my own house. Ignoring them for two years hasn’t gotten me anywhere, so I want to do things your way.”
My eyes grew wide as I realized what he was asking me. “Are you saying…”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “I want you to help me figure out what they want.”
In the days following my meeting in the park with Tate, we worked together to try to summon the ghosts. It was a complete departure from our usual M.O., running like hell whenever we saw one of them. In the afternoons, while Emma napped and Max went to his room to read quietly—often dozing off himself—Tate and I walked the third floor and attempted to find ways to draw them out.
We tried calling them out—despite not knowing their names—as well as a variety of techniques we’d researched in our books and online. He even started leaving his bedroom door open to invite them inside. Yet, none of the supposed ‘proven’ methods worked. By the time Friday rolled around, we hadn’t seen the hem of a single nightgown or even one rose petal.
“Do you think they’re on to us?” I asked him as we settled in front of the television with popcorn, candy, and soda with the kids and a couple of DVDs.
The Baldwins had yet another event to attend, leaving us alone with the kids for the night. Tate had been hanging around a lot during the day in case the ghosts showed up, but I also sensed he liked spending time with his siblings again. Emma certainly enjoyed it, following Tate everywhere he went and insisting on being in his lap every time he sat down. She sat nestled under his arm on the couch, head against his chest while Max worked to get the DVD playing. Tate held a bowl of popcorn in his lap, which Emma and I ate from while we waited.
“You know what we need?” I said suddenly. “Peanut M&Ms.”
“On the table,” Tate mumbled around a mouthful of popcorn.
Finding a big bag of them among a variety of candy bars, I tore it open and proceeded to dump them into the popcorn bowl.
“What the heck are you doing?” he muttered, watching me warily.
“Try them together,” I told him, mixing them around with my hand until ovals of blue, red, yellow, and brown lay interspersed with the white popcorn. “It’s the best thing you’ll ever eat.”
Emma sat up, glancing at me across her brother’s torso with a wrinkled nose. “That’s so weird.”
“Oh, come on,” I prodded. “You can’t say it’s weird if you don’t at least taste it.”
Tate tried it first, taking a handful of the popcorn with a few pieces of candy mixed in. Chewing slowly, he nodded, eyebrows raised.
“She’s right. It’s amazing.”
Emma reluctantly took two popcorn kernels with one piece of candy, screwing up her face when she first popped them into her mouth. I stifled a laugh, watching as she slowly chewed, her little jaw working back and forth. After a while, she opened her eyes, which were wide with delight, before going back for more.
“Max, you wanna try?” Tate asked, offering his little brother the bowl.
Settling in an armchair a bit away from us, Max worked to open a candy bar, avoiding Tate’s gaze. “No, thanks.”
Beside me, Tate scowled, his jaw becoming tense, but he said nothing as the movie started. Usually comfortable with the kids, I was still getting used to having their big brother around. Sitting so close to him on the couch, I caught wind of his scent again, which had clung to me that night in the cemetery, long after I’d given him back his jacket. Instead, I sat ramrod straight, careful not to get too close unless reaching for candy-laced popcorn. A few times during the movie, I felt eyes on the side of my face, but couldn’t tell if they were Tate, Emma, or Ma
x’s. The constant wondering, along with trying to keep a certain distance, was exhausting. So much so that, before the movie had ended, I was asleep.
I opened my bleary eyes some time later to find myself alone in the den with Tate, a second movie playing with the sound lowered. I had leaned against the arm of the sofa, legs curled up beneath me. Someone had covered me with a light blanket.
Sitting up, I rubbed my eyes. “Where are the kids?”
“I put them to bed,” he replied, voice low. “Go back to sleep if you want. I’ll keep an ear out for them.”
“I really shouldn’t sleep on the job,” I murmured. My words trailed off on a yawn.
Tate chuckled. “I’ll wake you when I hear my parents pulling up outside. They never have to know. I’m here. You look exhausted. Go to sleep.”
Rolling my eyes, I leaned back against my side of the sofa, stretching my legs out a bit more until they rested on the cushion between Tate and me.
“Is that a passive-aggressive way of telling me I look like crap?” I teased, already falling back asleep again.
Just before I nodded off again, I could have sworn I heard Tate whisper, “You’re too pretty to ever look like crap.”
Too afraid to open my eyes and acknowledge what he’d said, I let myself fall back under again. I wasn’t sure how long I dozed this time, but was jolted awake again by the sound of a crash.
Coming upright with a jolt, I gasped, jerking my head left and right to glance around the room. Tate was already on his feet, heading away from the den. Heart hammering, I followed him, fully awake now that adrenaline had kicked in.
“What was that?” I whispered.
The sound came again, like something being thrown against a wall.
“I don’t know,” he murmured, “but you should stay here in case there’s a break-in.”
He halted on the landing of the stairs, his shoulders tense as he glanced up, then down, trying to determine where the sound had come from. I knocked into him, grasping his arm to steady myself, then maintaining my hold on it out of anxiety.
Again, the noise reverberated through the house, a slamming followed by what sounded like cracking wood.
Tate turned toward the staircase leading up, his mouth a grim line. “It’s coming from upstairs.”
I followed his gaze, a shiver running down my spine. “Do you think it’s them?”
He nodded. “I know it is. No way did someone get past all the security crap in this house to make it all the way up to the third floor. It’s them.”
“Well, we wanted this,” I reminded him.
“I know,” he said, turning to extend a hand to me. “Shall we?”
Taking his hand without a word, I kept pace with him as we scaled the stairs. Both our steps were slow, as if we feared what we might find. Talking about making contact with ghosts was one thing… actually doing it was completely different. Thinking of the last time I’d been chased through the house by them, I shuddered, closed my eyes, and choked down bile.
Tate gave my hand a squeeze as we reached the landing and gave me a reassuring look. “We can do this.”
Meeting his gaze, I forced a smile and squared my shoulders. He’d been dealing with this for two years, as opposed to my few weeks. If he could be so confident about this, I needed to stop being such a wuss.
Edging our way down the hall, we made quick progress to Tate’s room, which we soon discovered was where the sounds came from.
“Stand back,” he warned before stepping through the open door.
Peering over his shoulder, I felt a gasp get stuck in my throat as I watched objects fly in different directions around the room, slamming against the wall and falling to the floor. Books, various sports trophies and medals, and other things I couldn’t identify whizzed across the room, bounding off each other, some of them even breaking to pieces. The overhead lights flickered rapidly—on, off, on, off.
“What the hell?” Tate muttered, coming more fully into the room.
He ducked to avoid a lamp, which soared over his head before hurtling through a window, shattering the glass.
Holding an arm out to keep me from stepping past him, Tate closed the door behind us.
“Okay, whichever one of you is trashing my room, you can stop now,” he bellowed. “I’m here!”
Silence fell over the room as the objects that had been suspended on air suddenly dropped to the floor. I flinched at the sound, my body breaking out in goose bumps as the familiar sound of a ghost’s ragged breath slid down my spine.
Tate and I both spun at once, finding ourselves face to face with the ghost sporting the bum leg and shard of glass protruding from her neck. Staring at us with her black eyes, she took a step forward, shuffling on her broken leg. I stiffened and muffled a low whimper, but Tate stood his ground, grabbing my hand and forcing me to stay, too. I straightened, making myself confront the wraith, looking her right in her coal-black eyes.
“Now that you have our attention,” he said, “we’re listening. What do you want?”
She inclined her head, causing the sound of snapping bones to echo throughout the room with a nauseating crunch. Watching Tate for a moment, she shook her head before gesturing toward me with her good hand.
Tate started, as if taken aback. “What? You want her?”
The ghost nodded, producing the crackling sound again. I forced myself not to be sick.
“No,” he growled low in his throat. “Hell no.”
“Wait,” I said suddenly, grabbing his shoulder. “Maybe she doesn’t mean she wants me, per se. They tried to get through to you before, and you disappointed them.” Glancing up at the ghost, I addressed her. “Is that it? You want to talk to me?”
More crunching as she nodded again, and then extended her index finger at me once more. I moved to step around Tate, but he held me back.
“I don’t like it,” he mumbled. “What could they want from you that they can’t get from me?”
“A level head and even temper for one,” I joked. “Relax. We already know they won’t hurt us.”
Reluctantly releasing me, he stood back and let me talk to the ghost.
“Okay,” I told her. “Here I am. What do you want?”
The ghoul turned her head left with a snapping of bones, staring at the wood-paneled wall, empty of all its décor now that she’d torn everything down. I winced when a sound like sharp fingernails against a chalkboard resounded through the room. Deep gouges appeared in the wood as if carved by a knife. I watched as the letters appeared, curved and straight lines aligning to spell out one word in capital letters.
JUSTICE.
“That’s it?” I asked, staring at the word—pale wood showing through beneath the dark staining. “Who do you want justice for? You?”
She shook her head ‘no’ again, and held one hand out toward the white specter that had suddenly appeared beside her. The other ghost—in her usual nightgown with billowing hair, the raw, angry black bruise around her throat as prominent as ever. Almost as if she’d been strangled or—I realized with a difficult swallow past the lump in my throat—hanged.
“Her?” I prodded. “Something happened to her, and you want the person responsible brought to justice?”
Both ghosts nodded this time, still penetrating me with those dead eyes. I exchanged a glance with Tate; he looked as bewildered as I did. What did we look like, the cast of Law & Order?
“We’ll do what we can,” I said, not wanting to make promises we couldn’t deliver. “It might help if you could show us where to start, or even who did it.”
As one, both ghosts turned their gazes to the person standing behind me. Extending their arms, they pointed straight at him.
Tate took a step back, panic transforming his expression. “Me? But I’ve never hurt anyone in my life!”
Still, the ghosts maintained their positions, fingers pointed straight at the very person they’d begun haunting in the first place.
“Are you sure you have th
e right guy?” I questioned, glancing from Tate to the ghosts and back again. “Tate Baldwin?”
Nodding, they continued pointing, even as they began to fade, disappearing in open air and leaving me alone with Tate. I was more confused than ever now. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the ghosts who haunted Tate also held him responsible for whatever had happened to the nightgown-wearing one. Something told me there was more to the story—something Tate wasn’t telling me.
Turning to face him, I braced my hands on my hips. “Lucy, you got some ‘splaining to do.”
“I’m not a murderer,” Tate insisted a few minutes later.
We’d gone down to the kitchen, where Tate had rummaged in the cabinets before finding a box of herbal tea. After putting a kettle on, he’d poured two cups, then offered milk and honey for mine. The box claimed it was a ‘soothing blend’, and I certainly hoped that was the case. After what had just happened, my nerves were fried, and I now had more questions about this whole situation than answers. Aside from that, a permanent chill seemed to have settled into my bones, making me cold from the inside out.
The tea helped as I sipped, the warmth curling in my belly before seeping outward toward my limbs.
“Then why would they accuse you of killing that girl?” I asked. “None of it makes any sense.”
“I don’t know if they were accusing me of hurting her,” he said, staring down at his cup. “I think, maybe, they think I might know something at the most. But their problem with me isn’t about that dead ghost.”
I stared unwaveringly at his face, certain that his words meant he did know exactly what their vendetta against him was about.
“Care to elaborate?” I muttered.
He sighed, shoulders sagging as he held his mug with both hands, as if trying to absorb the heat into his palms. “Look, this is hard. I want to tell you, but… I’m not certain it won’t make you hate me after. I did something terrible, and I’ve always had a feeling that my illness was their way of punishing me for it.”
More curious now than ever, I leaned forward. “If our past encounters haven’t made me hate you yet, then I doubt anything else will. Besides, we all do bad things sometimes. No one is perfect.”
Bellamy and the Brute Page 12
