I think about how my MP3 player just died after like five minutes when it had been charging all day. Could that be what happened to it? An "entity" sucked the energy out of it? Surely not.
I pick up something that looks like a remote control. "What's this?"
Celia's face lights up. "Oh! It's an EMF meter."
"A what?"
She takes the device and turns it over in her palm. "An electromagnetic-field meter. It's a scientific gadget for measuring electromagnetic radiation and energies." I can tell she's gearing up for another long speech. "See, there are lots of types of EMF meter, but the two largest categories are single-axis and tri-axis."
"Ummm ... Celia..."
"Single-axis meters are cheaper than tri-axis meters, but they take longer to completely read energies because the meter only measures one field dimension. Single-axis instruments have to be tilted and turned on all three axes to get an accurate measurement. A tri-axis meter measures all three axes at the same time, but they're usually tons more expensive. Most meters measure the electromagnetic-radiation flux density, which is the amplitude of any emitted radiation. Other meters measure the change in an electromagnetic field over time."
Oh. My. God!
I grab my head. "Celia! Yo! You're freakin' killing me!"
"Sorry," she says with a giggle. "I tend to get carried away."
"You think?" I ask with a laugh.
"Basically, an EMF can alert you to a spirit's presence." She pauses for a minute and then taps the meter. "I'm just excited to have someone to talk to about all of this. I've been doing a lot of research on it."
As strange as this talk is, I'm enjoying Celia's company. It's nice to hang with someone since Marjorie is more than a thousand miles away, probably socializing with Andrew Arnott, who she's had a crush on since, like, forever. Man, she'll laugh her ass off at me when I tell her about all of this ghost talk, if I can ever get her on the phone.
"I'm glad you came over," I finally say to Celia. "I was starting to think I was going through a mental breakdown." Who says I'm not, though? Maybe I can tell Celia about my lack of sleep, the strange tingling in my arms, the headaches, and the overall sense of weirdness that flitters through me. Or even how I felt Courtney's and Okra's pain. Nah—that can wait until we've known each other more than a day.
I take her mini-recorder in my hand. "So, what am I supposed to do with this?"
She smiles brightly. "It's got super night vision on it and will record for up to five hours."
"Impressive. Record what?"
Her messy hair blows into her eyes and she peers at me through the strands. "You're going to set it up in your room and get some video of that ghost you've got living in there."
I think my mouth falls open. "Whuuu-huh?"
Oh yeah. I've definitely stepped off into the deep end.
CHAPTER FOUR
HIS EYES ARE HYPNOTIC. Piercing blue and crystal clear, like pictures of the Caribbean Sea that travel agents have on their websites.
Those mesmerizing eyes are looking right at me. Through me, almost.
"Kendall..." he whispers in a voice that gives me (good) chills.
I wipe at the image in the air with my hands, trying desperately to see more of him. He's not too tall and he has broad shoulders. His hair is a golden blond, cut in a short crop, but long enough for a girl to run her fingers through it and really enjoy it.
I'm falling...
Not in love—although I won't rule it out—but literally falling.
My arms flail about, searching for anything to stop my plunge down ... down ... down what? Oh ... stairs. I'm falling down stairs. Oh God! This is going to hurt like hell.
Suddenly, I'm in his arms and I'm eyeball to eyeball with those amazing Dasani-bottle-blue orbs. I'm swimming in them, trying to find my breath that seems to have been knocked away. His strength cradles and protects me.
"I've got you, Kendall."
But who are you?
I pull back and finally see his face. Holy shit, he's gorgeous. Tan, straight nose, strong jaw. There's a small mole on his left cheek. His eyelashes are golden, just like his hair.
I can't breathe. The air is gone. And someone's shaking me. Hard.
Help me, Dasani-Blue-Eyed Boy ... help!
The rattling is for real. "Huh? What?"
"Kendall, wake up, kiddo. Time to get up for school."
I squint in the morning sunlight to get my bearings. My dad scrutinizes my face through his wire-rimmed glasses. "Are you okay?"
"Fine, Dad." My chest hurts and my muscles ache like I've taken a spill for real. "Weird dream, that's all."
Dad ruffles my hair like he's done since I grew hair. "At least you were sleeping. I've been worried about you."
"I know," I say with a sigh. "Thanks for the white-noise machine."
He smiles proudly. "I'd read they were good for insomnia."
I don't have the heart to tell him that I think it's a lot more than mere sleeplessness, like maybe a fatal, incurable illness. Instead, I nod and sit up.
Dad's still obviously concerned. "That's all it is ... right, Kendall?"
Since I'm not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV, I don't want to self-diagnose. I shrug. "I guess so."
He sits on the end of my bed and reaches for my hand. He rubs his thumb over mine like he has since as long as I can remember. I sense a serious conversation is about to follow.
Quirking his mouth, he says, "I know this hasn't been the timeliest move for you, kiddo, and I'm sorry about that. It's never a parent's intention to uproot their children because of a career opportunity. It must be hard for you, Kendall. You left all of your friends and your home for something completely different."
Not wanting to be a pain in his butt—Kaitlin plays that role well enough—I squeeze his hand and swallow down my homesickness. "Look, I know it was, like, an awesome thing for your career to come here."
"It's a benefit for the whole family," he adds. "My salary goes so much farther here than it ever would in Chicago. And we'll be able to save more for your college in a couple of years."
"I totally appreciate that, Dad, I do!"
I pause a bit too dramatically.
"But?" he asks.
"But..."
His dark eyes peer over his glasses at me, almost as if he's looking into my soul for the truth. He knows me so well—what can I say, I'm a daddy's girl and there's nothing wrong with that. David Moorehead's a great guy who loves his wife and family and wants to take care of them—duh, us—even if he did bring us to a place that's barely on the map and appar ently chock-full o' ghost chronicles. "Is everything okay at school? Are the kids treating you well?"
I laugh. "I've only been there one day. Pretty hard to assess my future at this point."
He frowns.
"Really, Dad. It's not school. I even made a friend yesterday."
"What is it then?" He tightens his grip on my hand. "You've always been able to tell me everything, kiddo."
"I'm just ... adjusting." In the past, I have told him whatever was bothering me. But that was before all the weird feelings, sensations, emotions, and voices through the white-noise machine. How the hell do I explain that without someone slapping the latest straitjacket fashion around me and carting me off to the loony bin?
"Are you sure that's all?"
I swallow hard again, trying to get at that dry lump of unease. "Do you, like, believe in ghosts, Dad?"
He pulls his hand away and chuckles heartily. "You're not listening to those stories, are you?"
"Which stories?"
Tugging off his glasses, he cleans them on the end of his striped silk tie. "You know, that Radisson is 'a hotbed of paranormal activity'?" He punctuates his speech with air quotes, glasses dangling from his fingers, and then dismisses the notion. "Oh, and that city hall—particularly my office—is haunted and dangerous."
My eyes widen. "It is? "
He plops his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "So
my executive assistant tells me. I don't believe rumors like that, though. They're only meant to attract tourists, or weirdos, to the area. I don't put much credence in stories of odd footsteps, strange voices, and 'a feeling.'" He tacks on a laugh for good measure.
"Why do they say your office isn't safe?"
"Seems the city planner they brought in before me quit three days into the job because he was allegedly attacked by what he described as 'an unseen entity.'"
I almost rip the covers trying to get out from under them. This is some serious shit, especially if what Celia told me about our house and this town is true. Now there's a potential threat at Dad's office? This is too much to take in. "Dad, you have to be careful!"
"There's no need to worry about me, kiddo. I'm not afraid of something that's not there. And don't you be either."
I drop my gaze to my comforter and fiddle with the corner of it. Do I tell him what I've experienced? What I've been feeling? Hearing? About the alleged psychic cats? "I'm not afraid, Dad." I change the subject. "I just want to find my place here and fit in."
"You will. If anyone can do it, it's my Kendall."
Rrrrrrrrr-aaaarrrrr...
A big black fur ball jumps up on my bed between us. It's huge and must weigh about fifteen pounds. It's not a cat, it's a mountain lion.
"I didn't know we had a kitty," Dad says, looking at the tag. "Well, hey there, Natalie."
OMG! It's Natalie, one of the cats Mrs. Elliott abandoned. The furry girl rubs Dad's knee, leaving black hair on his tan suit pants. Then she comes over to me, starts purring, and flops over with her fat belly exposed. I reach out tentatively and rub her stomach. The purring only intensifies.
I do notice that Natalie thumps her tail like crazy as I continue to love on her. I think nothing of it, though, despite Celia's warning about the cat knowing when danger was around the corner and communicating that by thumping her tail. This is the cat I'm supposed to be afraid of? Yeah, right.
"Can we keep her?" I ask.
"She's got a tag, Kendall. Which means she belongs to someone."
"Yeah, the crazy old woman you bought the house from left her when she moved."
Dad looks at Natalie and then smiles. "Seems like we have a pet then."
"Thanks, Dad!" I lean forward and kiss him hard on the cheek.
That's when everything spins out of control. Like I'm sucked into some sort of vortex and I'm falling through cold, shivery darkness toward nowhere. Suddenly, my mind flashes like a wicked lightning storm. A vivid, brilliant image of my dad appears front and center in my transcendental state. He's very upset. Hurt even. There's a patch of red blood trickling down his forehead between his eggplant-colored bruised eyes.
I jerk back and shriek something fierce, breaking the trance.
Dad laughs at me, though. "What's wrong, Kendall? Did I miss some whiskers when I shaved?"
My chest pounds like a nail gun on a two-by-four and my pulse does the Riverdance underneath my skin. "No, umm ... I ... I..."
"Kendall?"
Holy crap! Natalie was thumping her tail. Is this cat really predicting something horrific on the horizon? Should I panic and take heed? I glance down at her. She closes her kitty eyes and curls up peacefully. No. Natalie had nothing to do with this. How could she? The image came from somewhere else, like my own demented mind, obviously. How do I explain this vision to Dad when I can't even explain it to myself?
"Sorry, Dad. It was just some static electricity."
"Ah, well." He stands. "Hurry up and get ready. Your mom's making a frittata for you girls this morning. Extra cheese, like you like it."
When my stomach growls out, begging to break the overnight fast, my breathing acquiesces. Mmm ... frittata... that's what I'll think about instead of images of my dad bloodied and injured. Maybe attacked by that alleged ghost at his office, like his predecessor claimed to be. No. Not possible. This is just some sort of ridiculous thought drummed up by my lack of sleep, the move, and starting a new school. Anyone would react oddly to all these life changes.
Dad leaves my room, and I crawl out of bed to grab my towel. Natalie makes herself at home in the middle of my comforter. On my way to the bathroom, I sense a razor-sharp pain in the front of my skull that mirrors the location of Dad's apparent forthcoming injury. I stop in my tracks and press the terry-cloth material against my face. Tears threaten, and I stave them off. However, no amount of deep breathing will erase the image of my dad that's now stored forever in my memory bank. It can't be real. Not now. Not ever.
But something far down—something I have no explanation for—tells me, without a doubt, that I've seen my father's future.
I'll be damned if I'll let that hallucination come true. Nobody messes with my dad and gets away with it, whether I believe they exist or not.
I truly am going insane.
I need a shower.
The hot water blasts full steam to help knock me back to reality. I breathe in the orangey scent of my Victoria's Secret body wash and try to escape from my own brain. Thoughts of Dad subside and I concentrate instead on replaying my fantasy about Dasani-Blue-Eyed Boy. That dream was so real. As I lather the soap across my arms, I can still feel the indentations of his fingers on my biceps. Like his hands were just there. The sensation washes away with the bubbles as the water sluices over me. It was just a dream. A. Dream.
But what a dream.
Dasani-Blue-Eyed Boy ... oh, man, was he drop-dead gorgeous. Too bad they don't make cute guys like that outside of the Hollywood city limits. I certainly won't find anyone who looks like that here in Radisson.
When the final school bell rings, I gather up my physiology notes and rush down the hall to the chemistry lab, where I know I'll find Celia, who texted me. I want her to come over and look at the video from my room last night. Not that I'm buying into her whole ghost theory juuuuuuuuust yet. (Although ... my MP3 charger cord did mysteriously reappear last night. Someone is definitely trying to make me think I'm losing my mind by hiding things on me.)
I get to the chem lab and see Celia standing at a counter, wearing goggles and gloves. Her tongue wiggles out of her mouth as she concentrates on not spilling whatever she's working on.
"Hey," I say, tentatively. "What are you doing?"
She adjusts her goggles. "I'm running an experiment that tests the amount of lead in hair products."
I frown. "Why would you want to do that?"
"See, the lead acetate darkens the hair by reacting with the sulfur in the hair color and in the amino acids cysteine and methionine. These amino acids are integrated into the protein structure of hair. The product of this reaction is black lead sulfide—"
"Celia, you're doing it again," I say with a giggle.
Unfazed, she says, "Oh, well, I'm calculating the amount of lead acetate present by measuring the amount of an insoluble lead compound formed when a sample of the hair color product is reacted with potassium chromate."
I reach to stop her with my hand. "Really. I got it. All set."
"You asked," she says.
Trying to show more interest, I cross my arms in front of me. "What hair product are you using?"
Celia holds up a box with a picture of an older man on it. "Grecian Formula."
I let loose a belly laugh. "You're awfully serious and dedicated for only the second day of school."
Celia doesn't blink behind her goggles; a lock of hair has fallen in her face. "I asked for extra-credit work already to beef up my scientific credentials so I can get into a college of my choice."
I've wanted to go to the University of Michigan since, like, birth. They've got a great school of architecture and urban planning where I can become a second-generation planner and be just like dear ol' Dad. Besides, loves me some Wolverines football! Go, Blue! I think I'll major in football my freshman year. I'm curious to know where a smart Southern gal like Celia Nichols would want to go to college. Georgia Tech? Emory? Vandy? "Where's that?" I ask.
She stops what
she's doing and says, "There are dozens of fine institutes of science technology throughout the country. My focus will be on microbiology, chemistry, and physics, to enhance my major. Over the summer, I narrowed my choices to three places. First, Princeton University; second, Duke University; and third, a long shot, is the University of Edinburgh."
I wasn't expecting that! "As in Scotland? Are you serious?"
Celia curtsies as if she's doing it for Queen Elizabeth. "Sure thing! I mean, an Ivy like Princeton is a long shot coming from a school as small as RHS; that is, unless you're a legacy, which I'm not 'cause my dad went to Georgia Tech and my mother didn't even go to college—"
Uh-oh, here she goes again. "Celia..."
"But Princeton has their PEAR—Princeton Engineering Anomalies Research—program that studies consciousness-related physical phenomena. Of course, Duke has the Rhine Research Center and lots of seminars and workshops in my field."
I can't keep up with her and what this has to do with an experiment about lead content in Grecian Formula.
Celia takes a deep breath and pushes her hair out of her face with the back of her hand. "The granddaddy of all programs, though, is the University of Edinburgh. One of the most highly respected programs, and believe me, I've done my research."
My eyebrow twitches. "What programs? What exactly is your chosen major?"
"Parapsychology," she says, not missing a beat.
Shaking my head, I say, "Are you still on that?"
"Of course."
"That stuff's not for real, Celia. You can't spend your life chasing something that doesn't exist."
She gives me her own headshake. "There are more things in heaven and earth, Kendall, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
"Hamlet. Act one, scene five," I say. "Although it's Horatio, not Kendall."
"Whatever," Celia says. "The point is, if we're arrogant enough to think we're alone in this world without the presence of spirits, ghosts, angels, demons, entities, energies, what have you, then we're as ignorant as the bureaucrats who refuse to fund this kind of scientific research for the betterment of—"
The Awakening Page 4
