"A what?"
"Here."
Intrigued, I move off the bed and cross to her desk. I read the Web page over her shoulder. "'A residual haunting is thought by some to be a replayed haunting in which no intelligent ghost, spirit, or other entity is directly involved. Much like a videotape, residual hauntings are playbacks of auditory, visual, olfactory, and other sensory phenomena that are attributed to a traumatic, life-altering, or common event of a person or place, like an echo of past events.'" Whoa. That's heavy. "So let me get this straight," I say, standing tall. "I'm not seeing real ghosts, just the memory of something that may have happened, like, a hundred and fifty years ago?"
"Something like that," she says. "Think of it as an eternal video replay."
Great, the headache's back. Only this time, it's clearly caused by my tension.
Celia reaches for a large atlas from the shelf above her computer. She pulls it down and flips through the pages to one particular map.
She stabs her finger on the book. "See. Look." She's previously marked a path on the map of Georgia, making a yellow-highlighter line from Atlanta all the way to the Atlantic Ocean. "This," she says, "is Sherman's March to the Sea."
"Oh my God, Celia. You're such a dork."
She waggles her finger at me. "History buff is the politically correct term."
I elbow her and laugh, trying to make light of the situation. "Whatever, dudette."
She points to the small dot on the map that indicates my new place of residence. "Look. Right here is Radisson." Grabbing a magnifying glass from her top drawer, Celia zooms in on the town and the specific path of the Union soldiers all those years ago. "This is where the Union soldiers are known to have marched through Georgia. Here is the Spry River. It gets really narrow outside the Radisson city limits and turns into nothing more than a stream that's shallow and flows through here—where the cemetery is."
"That's literally right where I saw them!"
Celia claps her hands together. "Hot damn!"
"What?"
She grabs my shoulders and squeezes. "Kendall, don't you get it?You saw actual spectral evidence. I would kill to see that."
I don't exactly fear for my life here in Celia Nichols's room. However, the reality of all of this hits me like a right hook in the face from Rocky Balboa. "It's all true," I say, my throat tightening around the words. "Everything she said about me is true."
"She who said? What's true?" Celia asks. Exuberance is written all over her face. She's into all of this stuff, so she'll understand if I tell her, won't she?
Can I trust Celia with this info? I have to or else I will go mad. So I start dishing the 411 from Loreen Woods.
"Oooo, you talked to her?"
"Yeah, why not?"
"She's pretty cool. I've been in her store a couple of times. The tourists adore her. My dad sort of thinks Loreen's a weirdo and a fraud just sucking in the out-of-towners for their money."
"Yeah, well, I thought the same thing. But listen to this." I tell Celia everything that transpired at Divining Woman. "So, she was right. I'm a..." I pause, wondering if this is how gay kids feel when they come out of the closet to their friends and loved ones. If I admit this out loud, then it becomes true. There's no turning back. I swallow down my apprehension and say slowly and clearly, "Celia, I think I'm, like, psychic or something."
Celia's mouth drops open and her eyes dilate. "You're what?"
"Psychic. You know, a sensitive."
She stares at me blankly. Like she's seeing a ghost. Seamus, obviously bored now that (1) he's not the center of attention, and (2) the conversation has shifted to the weird, hops off the bed and struts his stout and sturdy bulldog self out of the room. I expect Celia to do the same.
It was fun having a new friend for two days ... oh well.
"Okay then, I guess I'll get going. Sorry about—"
"No effing way! That is phenomenal!"
"Really? You think so?"
"Yes! Don't you?"
Oh phew! "I suppose so," I say. I'm more relieved that she hasn't thrown a crucifix at me or arranged to have me boiled in oil.
"That's why you're hearing voices, Kendall. I've read all about this. Ghosts and spirits reach out to sensitives because you have, like, this flashing sign above your head that's telling them you can see and hear them, so they're constantly crowding around you, wanting your attention."
"I know, Loreen told me the same—" Celia isn't listening. She's off to the bed to get the video recorder I returned. She grabs a USB cord, plugs one end into her laptop and the other into the recorder, cues up some software, and clicks Play, all in a matter of moments. This chick knows her electronics. Her bedroom is the best boom-boom room I've ever seen. I sort of expect her to have a secret switch or knob that opens a wall panel and reveals the passageway to a secret underground lair. "Celia, are you paying any attention to what I'm saying?"
"Yeah, sure," she says, acknowledging me with a hand wave. Then, "You know, this means we can really do some serious ghost hunting. With your abilities and my technology—and unlimited bank account—we can get anything we need, from thermal cameras, EMF meters, and temperature gauges to walkie-talkies so we can go back and forth."
"Your unlimited bank account?" Geesh, must be nice.
She waves me off with another flick of a wrist. "Yeah, you know. Plastic allowance. Mom and Dad never look at my AmEx bill. Our accountant just pays everything monthly. Where do you think I got all of this stuff?"
I screw up my mouth. "I thought maybe you were a drug dealer or something."
"Sort of. My dad is the founder of Mega-Mart, which includes one of the biggest pharmacies in the nation."
"No shit!" I clarify. "The part about him founding Mega-Mart, that is."
"No shit about it."
Well, that explains everything. Celia Nichols is an heiress. To the Mega-Mart franchise fortune, no less. Who'da thunk it? She certainly doesn't act like the girls in my class back home in Chicago who lived at the more prestigious city addresses and wouldn't give fellow classmates the time of day if their parents made under a million a year.
Before I can say anything else, Celia turns and asks, "Can you channel?"
"Can I what?" I'm good at channel surfing.
Her eyes grow wide. "You know, channel a spirit."
"I hadn't thought about it." It sounds invasive. "Loreen didn't mention—"
Celia shakes her head. "Never mind, it's something you can learn later."
"I've apparently got a lot to learn." I spread my hands out before me, gazing at the lines and creases in my palms as if they're a road map that's going to show me the way in my new world. I definitely can't take this journey on my own.
Celia jars me out of my reverie. "Friggin' A, Kendall! Check this out."
My head is reeling from her excitement, but I lean closer and stare at the computer monitor where last night's video is running. Lovely: there I am in my T-shirt and shorts, thrashing around in the bed. Must have been when I was dreaming about Dasani-Blue-Eyed Boy.
Celia points to the screen with her index finger, indicating something white and smoky on the videotape. "Were you smoking a cigarette?" she asks.
Sneering, I say, "Yeah, right. At two a.m. I don't smoke, thanks. It's something else."
"Let me zoom in."
Sure enough, we see that there's a mist moving around.
"What the—?" I ask with a gasp.
"It's some sort of, umm..." Celia turns her head sideways and I follow along.
"Is it a vapor?"
She nods. "It's taking a form, almost."
"There's a hand," I say, pointing.
"Oh my God. There's hair, too! Look!"
I almost choke as the recorded apparition appears before me. A white, womanly form, peering down at me as I'm sleeping. Then the woman shifts and disappears out of the frame, as if she's headed down the hall to my parents' room. Chill bumps break out up and down my arms and legs, as if I'm caught outside in
a lake-effect snowstorm. Talk about major heebie-jeebies! My alarm shifts a gear into something resembling being pissed off. Who is this? And why is she messing with me and my family? An overwhelming sense of dread fills me, like I know this specter aims to hurt us because we're outsiders and are living in its house. I can't explain it other than I just feel it in the fabric of my being.
I put my hands on my hips, remembering the image of my father battered and bruised. Does this entity have something to do with that? Can I keep him safe from her, if it even is a her? "The hell with this. I want her out of my house, out of my room!"
"Awesome! We've got a lot of work to do if we're going to officially ghost hunt."
I never thought I'd say it, but—"I'm in. We need to read all we can on ghost hunting, what to do, what equipment we need, how to organize." Suddenly, in my mind's eye, I have a vision of football players working together. The letters t-e-a-m scroll through my brain. "We need a team to do this correctly, right?"
"Damn straight we do!" Celia mock salutes me. "I'm on it. And whatever we require in terms of electronics, supplies, anything, it's on me. I get a ridiculous discount at Mega-Mart like you wouldn't even believe."
I certainly won't argue with that proclamation because I know I can't bankroll this operation. Celia high-fives me, and my life has officially changed.
Something deep inside me, perhaps that awakening sixth sense, tells me this is the right thing to do. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to keep the vision of my injured dad from ever coming true.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THERE'S A GHOST in my house.
A real, live—well, technically not alive—freakin' ghost in my house.
I can't get over this.
Not while I slept last night—and dreamed about Dasani-Blue-Eyed Boy again—or when I was having b'fast with the fam while Mom read a daily devotional. Not even her blueberry smiley-face pancakes could distract me from the floaty ghost lady in my room. Nor could Dad's talking about how his coffee mug kept disappearing at work yesterday. Okay, I sort of heard that part. Maybe after Celia and I solve the mystery of the floaty lady in my room, we'll tackle city hall and investigate all the ghost stories there, starting with Dad's office.
Yep. I've accepted my fate. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
Celia and I are now officially ghost hunters, or, rather, ghost huntresses. Huh, I like that better. It sounds so fifteenth-century primeval of us. Not like I'm Van Helsing (Hugh Jackman was waaaaay hot in that movie) out to rid Transylvania of the vampires with a rapid-fire crossbow. Instead, I'll be like all those people on the TV programs Celia's had me speed-watching on her TiVo over the last three days. I'll use my abilities to help lost or confused spirits on their way—if that's what they're seeking. I promise to use my gift only for positive purposes. Besides, I want that apparition out of my house and away from my family. I thought I heard that ghostly voice last night when I passed by Kaitlin's room. Even though she's a pest, she's my little sister and I'll fight to the death for her, ghost or no ghost. If my newfound psychic abilities can help that earthbound spirit move to the beyond or wherever it's supposed to be, then I'm all over it.
Here at school now, I look across the aisle at Celia, who's furiously sketching something in her notebook instead of listening to our calculus teacher, Mr. Kline, drone on about the specific arc length of a parametrically defined curve. Celia's tongue sticks out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrates on whatever it is she's drawing. I don't blame her for being bored. How in the world are parametrically defined curves going to help me in my future at the University of Michigan? Or in Celia's quest for a parapsychology degree in Scotland—which I still think is a bit nutty.
Only six more minutes until the bell rings and we can eat lunch. I'm not sure if it's my awakening psychicness or what, but I'm so hungry I'd eat my calculus book if it was battered and deep-fried.
Mr. Kline drops the chalk to the tray and steps over to the lectern. "Read through chapter three and do the problems on page forty-four. We'll discuss tomorrow."
Bleck. Homework. On a Thursday too. Doesn't Mr. Kline know I've got to watch Ugly Betty tonight? Oh ... and surf the Web some more—finally got the Internet connection at home and have been looking at all the links and bookmarks Celia's forwarded me—on how to ghost hunt. It all still feels massively weird, but it's something to do and something to keep my mind off that vapor in my room that talks through machines. And I need to see if Marjorie has gotten my e-mail filling her in on everything that's going on in my new life here in Radisson. I also need the deets on what she's been up to. I can't believe she hasn't tried to call me. Maybe she's just crazy-busy like I am. Man ... there's so much to do and so little time.
When the bell blares, I swoop my things off the desk and into my backpack with little care. "Let's eat!" I announce at Celia's desk. "I heard the American chop suey is actually edible."
Celia quickly snaps her notebook shut, but not before I get a good glimpse at what she was drawing. It looks like a guy.
"Who's that?" I ask.
"No one."
I furrow my brows at her.
"Seriously, Kendall. It's nothing. Mr. Kline was about to put me to sleep."
"Me too." I glance at the spiral notebook she crams into her bag. "That was really good, whatever you were drawing."
She won't look at me. "I was just doodling. No big." She slings her bag over her shoulder. "This class blows. I wish I'd opted for something else this period."
I decide to let questions about her sketch go. For now. Some people are sensitive about their art, so I won't push. "I know. I wish I could be like that dude over there." I point to a thin guy who'd been sitting in the front row and is now deep in a convo with Mr. Kline. He must be bucking for this semester's teacher's pet. "He seems riveted by calculus."
Celia glances over and shrugs. The guy catches her looking at him and a wide grin spreads across his face. Then he waves. "Oh. That's just Clay. He's a whiz at all things math-related."
He's also majorly crushed on Celia. I don't necessarily have to have psychic abilities to understand that. Look at him light up! "Are you guys going together?"
Her mouth drops. "Me and Clay? No way!"
"Why not? He's tall and cute and I can totally tell he likes you."
Was she drawing a picture of Clay in her notebook and is just too shy to tell me? Or him? I think it's kind of precious, in a geeky Celia sort of way.
Shaking her head, she bolts out of the classroom and into the hall toward her locker. "Clay Price and I have known each other since we were little. Our dads golf together."
"So?"
"So," she starts, "I'm not interested in him like that."
"How are you interested in him?"
"I'm not. In any way. All he does is tease me. He used to pop my bra in sixth grade."
I roll my eyes. "Don't you know that when a guy likes you, he's mean or teases you?" I remember Jack Dumfries pushed me off the seesaw in second grade because he allegedly liked me—or so Marjorie told me when I was lying in the dirt trying not to cry because I'd ripped my brand-new tights. Not the smartest way to my heart, but Jack and I did "go steady" for two whole weeks. This is great, though. I finally feel like a normal high school teenager having a normal high school teenager conversation. "Who are you interested in?"
"No one!"
"Don't get all defensive."
"I'm not."
I see her cheeks stain red and know I've touched a nerve. There's definitely something she's not telling me and I can't seem to break through her mind to find out what it is. I can't exactly read minds, I don't think. Rather, there's just information out there that I know, without a shadow of a doubt, is true.
"Sorry, Celia."
"No, it's not you," she says, hiding her eyes behind her hair. "It's just that I have too much to think about academically, extracurricularly—and now with our ghost hunting—that I don't have time for boys. Especially someone as annoying as Clay."
"Clay's a cutie. Was he who you were drawing?"
"Jesus, Kendall. Drop it, would you?"
I laugh heartily to break the tension. "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."
Celia rolls her eyes back at me. "Don't go get all Hamlet on my ass, okay?"
I can't help but hip-check her as she's stashing her books in her locker. "Whatever you say, Nichols."
"I say we quit worrying about my love life—or lack thereof—and concentrate on setting up our ghost-hunting team."
"All right, already," I state with a knowing smile. I really like Celia and I don't want to do anything that would put me on her bad side. She's fun and smart and crazy. And she's the only person who's given me the time of day (other than that one visit with Loreen) since I moved to Radisson. Everything happens for a reason, right?
Which is all good 'cause I've left two voice-mail messages on Marjorie's cell and she still hasn't returned my e-mail. See, I typed out this long message to her about what's been going on here since I moved. Like, everything. I'm trying to reason that she's just busy with school and life in Chicago, and she's not ignoring me and my e-mail confession about being psychic. Since Marjorie's mom's a big flake, Marjorie might think I'm headed down the same path.
Good thing I've got Celia now to be a friend and accept me for who I am.
In the caf, she and I buzz through the serving line, snagging salad, American chop suey—which isn't Chinese at all, just elbow macaroni, ground beef, and tomato sauce—and ice-cold Diet Cokes. Celia leads us to a table over near the window where we can begin strategizing our ghost huntressing. Where to start?
I dive into my plate of food like I've never eaten before while Celia decorates the table with printouts from websites galore on how to assemble an investigative team and all the equipment we'll need. "Most of these websites," she begins, "say you should have about eight people for a proper ghost-hunting team."
"Why eight?" I ask with my mouth full. My mom would be so ashamed of me. We won't even go there about what she would think of me becoming a ghost huntress.
Celia makes a note and then says, "Because you need people collecting the different kinds of scientific data and evidence."
The Awakening Page 7
