Help for the Haunted: A Novel

by John Searles

  I shook my head. The conversation had nudged my mind back to what I should have been focusing on. I remembered that note about Uncle Howie inside the folder and wondered if that’s why we had stopped hearing from him.

  Dereck fell silent next to me, and not long after my sister emerged from the building. When she climbed into the truck, Rose tossed the envelope with her check on the dashboard. On our way to the bank, Dereck asked her about the safety cone still in the back. It belonged to Sheila, Rose told us, a woman who also worked at Dial U.S.A. “Sheila claims to have dibs on the spot. She throws a hissy if anyone even looks at it. It’s not a handicapped space but may as well be because it’s so close to the front door. That’s why she wants it to herself. She’s as lazy as they come.”

  “So how did she get her hands on a safety cone?”

  “Her husband works road crew. And the woman has the balls to leave it in the spot to keep everyone away, like it’s reserved parking.”

  “Not anymore,” Dereck said. “Now that you have it.”

  “Oh, trust me. She’ll have a new one tomorrow. Sheila pops them out like a chicken laying eggs. One of these days I’ll shove them all right back up her ass.”

  Dereck laughed. Since we were pulling up to the drive-through window at the bank, and I was about to get paid, I should have felt happy enough to laugh too. But I couldn’t manage it. Soon, Rose was scooping an envelope with cash from the teller’s drawer. She asked for a lollipop they normally gave to children and popped it in her mouth, not bothering to get any for Dereck and me. I watched her suck on the thing while counting the bills before setting the envelope on the dashboard. As we pulled away from the bank, loose coins chattered inside.

  I cleared my throat and asked, “Rose, can I have my seventy-seven dollars now?” The question came out just as she pumped up a song; a scratchy-voiced singer wailed about shaking someone all night long. Once more, Rose beat her hands on the steering wheel and crooned away. As we picked up speed, wind rushed through the windows, whipping her hair. I watched Dereck bat it away as the envelope slid back and forth across the dashboard with every turn. At last, the shaking all night long wound down, and Dereck smiled, showcasing his wolfish teeth. He said quietly in my good ear, “Must be morning.”

  When the inside of the truck grew silent, I knew I didn’t have much time before the next song started. I used my most mature, survey-taking voice to say, “Rose, can I please have my seventy-seven dollars now?”

  “Sorry, squirt. But you aren’t getting that money just yet.”

  “Why do we have to wait until we get home? I want—”

  “I’m not talking about waiting until we get home. I’m talking about you contributing to the expenses for a change.”

  “But that’s not the deal we made.”

  “Well, it is now.”

  “I’ll give some toward expenses, Rose, but not all. I have plans for that money.”

  “What plans?”

  I shouldn’t have told her how my savings had been wiped out after that summer Abigail came to live with us. I shouldn’t have told her about the cookbook for Boshoff. But I did, and it ignited a rant about the people she had to waste money on too. “One is named Mr. Maryland Light and Power. Another is named Mrs. Baltimore Oil and Heat. They’re bills, Sylvie. Bills we need to pay. So if you think buying a book for some crap counselor takes priority over keeping the lights and heat on, or putting food on the tab—”

  “What food?” I could not keep from saying. “You mean Popsicles?”

  “Surprise! They cost money too, and I don’t see you complaining when you’re shoving them in your face!”

  “Calm down,” Dereck tried, but nobody was listening to him anymore.

  His leg felt too heavy against mine all of a sudden, and I shoved it away. “I worked hard getting those surveys, and I deserve the money!”

  “Sorry, Sylvie. But the answer is no.”

  If my sister were smarter, she would have snatched the envelope off the dashboard by then. But maybe she didn’t suspect me of being capable of what came next. As we rounded another corner, I watched that envelope with its bills and chattering coins slide in her direction. Before it could slide away for good, I sucked in a breath and did something I hadn’t since that night with Dot years before: The Scream.

  The sound caused Dereck to flinch as I lunged across his lap and grabbed at the envelope. Rose let go of the wheel and grabbed at it too. Before either of us could get it, the money slipped from the dashboard, coins spraying on the way down. I tried to catch what I could, my hand brushing Dereck’s crotch in the process, which led him to grab my arm. The truck swerved. Rose put her hands on the wheel again, jerking us back to the right side of the road.

  “Jesus Christ!” she screamed. “You almost killed us.”

  I wriggled free from Dereck’s grip then dropped to the floor. Down on the gritty mats, I spotted the envelope by Rose’s sneakers. I reached out but she kicked it away. Again, the truck swerved, this time more suddenly and forcefully. Someone in another vehicle laid on the horn as Rose slammed one foot down on the envelope, the other on the brake, then cut the wheel. I looked up to see Dereck’s square face as the sky swirled above and things got bumpy.

  And then, all at once, everything went still.

  As the sound of the horn faded, I stayed on the floor, staring at Dereck’s giant, unlaced work boots next to my sister’s small black sneakers. I watched as Rose reached down and grabbed the envelope, quickly shoving it in her jeans. Three quarters. Two dimes. Three pennies. Since I didn’t know what else to do, I gathered up those coins, a pathetic ninety-eight cents that I slipped into my pocket. When I sat up, I saw that we had made our way into an empty lot with patches of tar and muddy grass between two industrial buildings. I glanced at the clock, trying not to think about how much time I wasted doing those surveys—how much time I was still wasting not getting the answers I really needed.

  “You’re not getting the money,” Rose told me. “And I don’t want to hear any more about it.”

  Good, I thought as my hand found the door handle, because I have nothing left to say on the topic. Before Dereck could stop me, I shoved open the door and jumped out, tumbling onto the damp earth. I’d left my tote bag inside but managed to snatch my journal on the way and keep it with me.

  “Sylvie!” Dereck got out and lumbered in my direction. “Are you all right?”

  I stood and began hunting for one of my flip-flops, which had come free.

  He pointed toward a patch of tall, dead grass. “There.”

  I limped over, picked it up, slipped it on.

  “Just let her be.” Rose hadn’t bothered to get out of the truck, but she hung her head out the window and called to Dereck. “The girl’s brain has finally shit the bed. She’ll come to her senses and find her way home soon enough.”

  “Better go,” I told him. “Your girlfriend’s waiting.”

  “You don’t have to be so upset, Sylvie. I know it’s seventy-seven dollars, and you worked hard for it. But in the grand scheme of things, it’s not much. You’re going to make that and more in your sleep someday.”

  My sister revved the engine. Watching her made me think of the detail I found in Rummel’s folder. Not the scribble about Howie, but that other thing I’d always wondered but never knew. “How about fifty dollars?” I asked him. “Is that a lot?”

  “Fifty? I thought you said you made—”

  “I’m not talking about what I made. I’m talking about how much Albert Lynch paid—or offered to pay Rose to call my parents and get them to the church that night.”

  Dereck’s gaze shifted to my feet. He began cracking the knuckles on his bad hand—thumb, index finger then stopped abruptly, as though remembering the rest were no longer there. “But what does that matter if it’s not true? The man is lying. Rose was home with you. You both said so all along.”

  I stared at him, thinking how easy it would be to let that final secret free.


  “Train leaves the station in ten seconds,” my sister called out her window. “All aboard or you’re shit out of luck.”

  Dereck lifted his head and looked at me. “Get back in the truck, Sylvie.”

  “No,” I told him, feeling the tic-tic-tic of my heart.

  It seemed he might take a couple of quick steps, pick me up, and force me to go with them. But I was wrong. “Well, if you aren’t going to come, then at least take my jacket. It’s cold out, and you’re not dressed warm enough. You never are.”

  “Ten seconds,” Rose said from behind Dereck. “Nine. Eight. Seven . . .”

  “Quit your counting!” he yelled, the first I ever heard him speak up to her. He pulled off his battered barn jacket and held it out to me. When I didn’t take it, he tossed the coat on a patch of tar between us. He removed his boots too, set them beside the coat. With that, he turned, walked toward the truck, and climbed inside. A moment later, Rose stepped on the gas, the tires spun in the mud, and the truck picked up speed and disappeared.

  Their sudden absence left a vacuum of quiet behind. A cool breeze moved through the trees surrounding the field, bringing with it the memory of Rummel’s voice:

  You’ve got sixty-six hours to consider exactly what you did or did not see in the church that night last winter. After that, your time is up.

  I stepped forward onto the patch of tar where Dereck had left his boots and jacket. It looked as if he had been sucked into the earth, pulled down to the underworld depicted in the pages of those books my father kept in the curio hutch. I slid out of my flip-flops, stepped into Dereck’s boots, roomy and warm from his large feet. I lifted his jacket, put that on too. Slowly, clumsily, I began walking out of the field in the direction of those industrial buildings. I hadn’t let on to Dereck, but I knew exactly what I was going to do once they were gone. It was something I’d decided while down on those truck mats, getting knocked around, same as that Scooby head. Inside my journal was the letter I found beneath Rose’s bed. For more than two weeks now, I’d been carrying it with me, taking it out and reading the words:

  Dear Rose, I’m probably the last person or spirit on God’s green earth you want to hear from right now. Yet, here I am writing you anyway . . .

  Those coins from the floor of the truck, the only income I’d see from all my hard work, might not have been enough to replenish my savings or buy poor Boshoff that cookbook. But it was enough to make a call to the number on the top of that letter. If my parents were alive, they never would have wanted me to do it, but he was the only person who knew more about their lives, about our family, than me. And maybe, I thought, he might be able to tell me something about that night and all that had come before it.

  I had little more than sixty-three hours left.

  I was going to call Sam Heekin and ask for his help.

  Chapter 12

  Girls

  There should be a word to describe the specific kind of melancholy that creeps up during the final days of a trip. Whatever it would be called, that feeling began infecting each of us the very next morning in Ocala—a bit too soon, considering our time away from Dundalk was only just beginning. The plan had always been that we would spend a few days after my parents’ lecture doing what most tourists do in the Sunshine State: going to Disney World. We stuck to the plan but, unfortunately, that end-of-vacation feeling stuck to us.

  More than anything, what brought it on was the dramatic change in Rose.

  Over breakfast at an IHOP off the interstate, my sister was quiet and polite. Not overly friendly. Not chatty. But she smiled and paid attention when each of us spoke. She answered questions when asked. She ordered chocolate chip pancakes. Used her knife and fork to cut them before chewing softly and cleaning her plate. On the way out of the restaurant to get back on the road to Orlando, she even thanked my parents for the meal.

  Those were the results my parents had hoped for when my father dragged her out of that room. And yet, even though they seemed pleased, the change was so sudden, so drastic, I had the sense none of us really trusted it.

  Since my mother and father were never ones for rides, they spent most of their time at Disney World waiting on benches while Rose and I stood in eternal lines. I knew most of the attractions didn’t appeal to my sister, yet she climbed on board and buckled up, feigning excitement as we glided through Wendy and Peter’s window out over the twinkling lights of London. She put on the same cheery face as we floated through countries where children sang “It’s a Small World” in so many different languages. When it came time for Space Mountain, I suspected that hurtling through the dark might shake out the true Rose. But same as me, she gripped the safety bars and held in her screams. In the end, she offered just one glimpse of the person hidden beneath. While riding our “doom buggy” through the Haunted Mansion, a trick mirror reflected the image of a ghost in a top hat seated between us.

  “What?” I asked when I saw Rose sneering in the reflection.

  “Nothing.”

  “Not nothing. What?”

  “I was thinking that they should have come on this ride.”

  “Mom and Dad?”

  “Who else, stupid?”

  “Why?”

  “For starters, maybe they could have taken a picture of that ghost and put it on the screen at their next phony talk.”

  “You don’t believe them?”

  “Do you, Sylvie?”

  “Yes. Well, at least I think I do.”

  “Think harder. Uncle Howie told me stuff that might convince you otherwise.”

  “What stuff?”

  In the same way that ghost appeared in the mirror then vanished, the true Rose had appeared for a moment too, but then she gave a little shake to her head, as though flinching at the thought of something unpleasant, before vanishing as well. Around her wrist, she wore an elastic band I’d noticed for the first time that morning. All day long, I’d been watching her snap it until the skin beneath grew red and irritated. She yanked and released it then too, telling me to forget she said anything. “Let’s just enjoy the ride. It’s fun, huh?”

  “Guess so,” I told her.

  When our buggy wheeled to a stop, we followed the path of railings outside, where the sun felt harsh compared to the dim lights of the ride. In the throbbing heat, our parents waited. The warm weather had led them to abandon their usual attire. Rather than a column dress, my mother wore jeans and a pale purple top I’d never seen before. Rather than a brown suit, my father wore a pocket tee and plaid shorts, putting his hairy legs on display. Even though they were dressed not much differently than other adults in the park, I caught people staring anyway.

  I’d brought my underlined copy of Jane Eyre with a plan to mark more passages I liked while waiting in line. But the thought of that conversation Rose and Howie had about me not being like kids my age led me to instead give the book to my mother, who had begun rereading it herself. My father sat by her side, a glazed expression on his face as he dabbed his forehead with a hankie and watched people pass by. “How was the ride?” he asked when he saw us. “Anyone inside ask for help from your mother and me?”

  I looked at Rose, wondering if that sneer might reappear. Instead, she gave my father her cheery new smile. “No, but they should have. It’s pretty scary in there.”

  “Next stop, Frontierland,” he told her. “Don’t think we’ll have much to worry about there. Except cowboys and Indians.”

  From Frontierland to Adventureland and every other land in the park, Rose did not break from her new persona again. And when the vacation ended at last, we drove north with her seated quietly beside me in the backseat. Instead of shouting obscure scriptures, she took her turn reading that now beat-up, dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre. All the while, I glanced over to see her snapping that elastic against her wrist, which had become even redder and more irritated.

  Once we settled back in Dundalk, where the air had grown cooler and autumn loomed, Rose kept up her good behavior. She began junior
year by joining the track team and doing homework each night without complaint. Some evenings, she even made Hamburger Helper or sloppy Joes so my mother could get a break from cooking. Rose also brought home her first boyfriend: a senior named Roger who had the straightest part I’d ever seen, a crisp white line that divided his scalp. Except to answer my father’s questions about his academic interests and to compliment the food, Roger was mostly quiet during dinner, even quieter when we watched a documentary afterward and he held Rose’s hand on the couch. After that night, Roger didn’t come around again, though Rose didn’t seem to care. As weeks passed, and still there was no trouble from her, I had the feeling our parents had begun to trust that my sister had settled down again.

  I started to believe it too.

  In late September, Rose’s seventeenth birthday arrived. Since Rose had begun attending confirmation classes at Saint Bartholomew, my parents invited the new parish priest to dinner. Every birthday, my mother baked a Lady Baltimore cake, which, despite the name, she told us was not a Maryland tradition but a southern one. Father Coffey, however, took it upon himself to arrive with an ice cream cake. When he set it on the table, we all stared at the words Happy Birthday, Rosie in loopy cursive across the top. “Who the hell is Rosie?”—that’s the question my sister normally would’ve muttered beneath her breath. Instead, after Father explained that the people at the shop slipped in the i all on their own, Rose laughed and said she kind of liked being Rosie for a night.

  After dinner, I cleared the table and arranged candles on Rosie’s cake while my mother’s creation—with its white frosting, nuts, and candied fruit—had been banished to the refrigerator out of politeness. If my mother was bothered, she didn’t let it show. She sang “Happy Birthday” just the same, her voice more pleasant than the rest of ours, before my sister squeezed her eyes shut then blew out the flames in a single breath. As Rose sank a knife into the cake, my mother asked what my sister had wished for.