The Tidings - [Ghost Huntress 0.5 - A Christmas Novella]

by Marley Gibson

  I smile at the thought of Mom missing me even though I’ve just been away for the last day of school and working at Loreen’s store. The microwave beeps out and I add a tea bag to the water to steep—something I learned to appreciate during my time in London over the summer.

  Mom’s footsteps sound out overhead and I hear her shuffle down the steps. My annoyance at the world ebbs for a mere sec as I anticipate the loving embrace she’s surely going to wrap me in when she appears next to me here in the kitchen. And boy, could I ever use one of my mom’s hugs.

  It doesn’t happen, though, as she stops in front of me with a grimace on her face. “You’ve got to help me, Kendall.”

  So much for my hug. “Umm, okay. What’s wrong?”

  “Kaitlin tore the hem of her angel gown when she was trying it on earlier. I told her not to wear her soccer shoes, but she stubbornly refused. Look at this mess those cleats caused.” Mom holds up the shimmery white and silver fabric with the hem dangling off the left side in a gnarled way. “I’ve got to run out to JoAnn’s for more fabric to finish the gossamer wings in time for tomorrow night’s service. You simply have to stitch this up, please.”

  “Me?” I ask incredulously. “Why me?”

  Mom’s face tightens. “Please, Kendall. Don’t give me any lip. This is important to your sister.”

  Yet no one cares about what’s important to me. I hang my head in defeat.

  Disappointment coats me. Not only from the lack of hugging, but the somewhat Cinderella-esque feeling of only being needed to do someone else’s dirty work. That’s what these past few weeks have been all about, though. School first. Kaitlin’s spotlight. Patrick’s dive trip. My grandparents’ cruise. Loreen and Mass’s wedding.

  Where do I fit into all of this?

  I snatch the garment out of Mom’s hand and take the Tupperware container that has all of her sewing accoutrements. Mom slides her purse up onto her shoulder and disappears through the back door.

  “Stupid Kaitlin.” Brat extraordinaire. Not even my real sister. But Mom and Dad’s real daughter. Immediately, I tamp down the heartburn of guilt over the thought. Mom and Dad have never treated me differently or shown favoritism… at least not until now. I guess the brat deservers some attention after all the stupidity I’ve been dealing with.

  I plop down in the arm chair in the corner of the kitchen and feel my bottom lip protrude into a downright pout. Even though I hear the heater kick on, nothing can warm me right now. I’ve moved beyond the winter chill. I’ve bought property in Bitterville where I’m pelted with the cold reality that this Christmas officially sucks.

  No one cares about me, my wants, my needs, my desires. Not that I’m some narcissistic, needy person like Courtney Langdon at school. However, no one has stopped for one second to ask me how I am or what I’m up to. No one’s really thought to focus on how stressed out I am or how I can’t sleep through the night lately.

  Just then, Buckley chases Eleanor through the kitchen playfully and even they don’t stop to pay any mind to me. “Don’t act like I’m the one who fills your magical unending Iams food dishes daily!”

  They continue along in their play. I continue to linger in my angst.

  The wind rattles the kitchen window pane and I hear the pine needles scrape against the glass. I stab the thread through the eye of the needle and roll the end of the strand into a tiny knot. Kaitlin should be doing this herself. Why should I have to be responsible to help out all because I’m the oldest and happen to have taken an embroidery class three years ago?

  I plunge the needle into the fabric and straight into my index finger.

  “Crap!”

  A scarlet ooze of blood clouds out of my skin.

  And just like that, no good deed goes unpunished.

  See what I mean? Bah-freaking-humbug.

  STANZA 2: A CHEERLEADER’S GHOST

  I rummage through the junk drawer in the kitchen to try and find a Band-Aid from this century.

  “Stupid Kaitlin,” I mutter again, sucking the fresh blood off my finger.

  As I roll the bandage around the reddened pin prick, I muse on how I ought to be happy in a million ways, like the song says. I usually adore Christmas, especially Christmas Eve. It’s just that everything is so… stupid right now. Sure, we’ve got this massive evergreen in the living room decorated to the hilt with all of the ornaments Kaitlin and I handmade over the years—from pathetic macaroni, yarn, and glue art, to more sophisticated painted clay shapes—but where’s the snow? Where are the mittens, scarves, and boots? There’s no hill covered in ice to slide down. No frozen-over lake to skate on. Instead, Mom has a few logs burning in the fireplace to try and institute a genuine holiday experience. I shake my head at the ridiculousness of it.

  As I sit back and return to stitching Kaitlin’s dress, the door of the house bursts open. Buckley lets out a loud mewl and I hear the human mimicking of the kitty language.

  “A merry Christmas, Kendall! God save you!” cries out my best friend, Celia Nichols.

  “It’s not Christmas yet,” I say in my best Scrooge voice.

  Celia twirls—yes, she twirls—into the kitchen so quickly at me, I barely have the chance to prepare for the over-the-shoulder hug she layers on me.

  “A merry Christmas eve-eve, Kendall,” she corrects.

  “Seriously. Bah humbug.”

  She harrumphs at me. “You took Mr. Rorek’s Dickens assignment too literal, K. School’s out, we’ve got two weeks of vacay, and life is good.”

  I slice my eyes up at her and glare. “For you, maybe.”

  “Oh, you don’t mean that.”

  Mid-stitch, I say, “Yeah, I do. Why are you so frickin’ merry?”

  Celia pushes her black hair behind her ears and smiles at me. Not just a normal run-of-the-mill-happy grin. No, it’s one of those movie star, up-on-the-silver-screen type of glints that tells me she’s got something to share.

  “What?”

  Like a giddy girl, she says, “Jason gave me my Christmas present early.”

  A weak smile crosses my face. Not because Celia’s now dating my ex, Jason Tillson, but because she’s so ridonkulously in love and it shows. “That’s great,” I force out. “What’d he get you?”

  She pushes up the sleeve of her black sweater to reveal a pretty substantial piece of arm jewelry. “It’s the Pandora World Travelers bracelet.”

  I nearly gag on my intake of breath. “Holy crap, Celia! That’s like an eight hundred dollar bracelet!”

  Her eyes widen and she nods. “I know. I totally freaked when I opened the box. But Jason told me his mother got it from Delta’s lost and found. She discovered it on the floor in first class after one of her flights from New York to Atlanta. She did the whole turn into the proper authorities and such and waited like three months. When no one claimed it, she got to keep it. Jason thought it would be the perfect gift for me since it’s got a London bus, the Eiffel Tower, an airplane, and the Roman Colosseum—all things that are memories of our European trip together.”

  I finger the charms – one with a camera, a peace sign, and Big Ben – remembering our summer journey. A trip that turned Celia and Jason into a couple. The same voyage that helped me finally discover my grandparents.

  “If you weren’t already the richest girl in Radisson, Celia, you would be with this piece of silver,” I say, and force a smile.

  “Don’t be mad,” she says. “It was dumb luck, honestly. I’m sure Patrick has something incredible for you.”

  I wave her away with my hand and keep sewing. “I can’t think about that,” I tell her. “He’s got other things on agenda. He left already on his trip to Belize with his dad.” Anger and frustration bubble under my skin. “Things have been so tight for him and his dad,” I say. “I can’t believe they’re spending so much money going on a diving trip. He should have his head examined.”

  Celia’s glee fades into a frown. “He didn’t give you a present before he left?”

  I
shake my head.

  She reaches out and pats my sewing hand. “I’m sure he’ll bring you something wicked cool from Belize. It’s known for its, umm, you know… Belize stuff.”

  I can’t help but laugh at her attempt to cheer me up.

  “So, my parents are having this big blow out dinner on Boxing Day,” Celia tells me. “You know, instead of tossing out the leftovers and such, they’re pulling out the full, traditional, English stops and opening the house up to everyone in town to come over for a big after Christmas party.”

  “That sounds like fun,” I say, knowing I don’t want any part of it. By the twenty-sixth, I’ll have fulfilled my sisterly duties to Kaitlin and her starring pageantry. My daughterly obligation helping out on Christmas day, and my maid of honor role to Loreen as she stand at the altar with Father Mass will be finished, as well. I don’t care about after Christmas sales, bowl games, or parades. I plan on cowering under the covers with my ereader and music, barricading the outside world away from me.

  Celia continues. “Dad’s also inviting the folks from the shelter to come. You know, so they have more than just a soup-kitchen type holiday.” Her face falls. “There are so many more homeless people in Radisson than before. I thought with the new distribution center opening soon and jobs coming available, people would be doing better. So, we’re just trying to help out.”

  “That’s nice of you.” And it is. But I just can’t feel charitable right now when my own heart feels hollow and abandoned. “You have to be careful, though, about who you just let wander around your house, Cel. You guys have, like, tons of art and silverware that someone could just walk away with.”

  She giggles at me. “It’s Christmas, Kendall. My dad has more than he could ever want or need. He wants to share.”

  I stab the needle in and out of the hem, nearly finished. Kaitlin better appreciate this, but she probably won’t… as usual.

  “Come on, Kendall, say you’ll come. What else do you have to do?” Celia asks.

  My mouth falls open and I feel my eyes grow wide in shock and awe.

  “God, Kendall,” she stumbles out. “I didn’t mean that. I’m a total idiot. I meant that Patrick won’t be back yet and it’ll be good to have your company. Everyone’s going to be there: Taylor, Becca, Shelby-Nicole, Jason… it wouldn’t be the same without you.”

  I smile weakly at her as I set Kaitlin’s gown on the table. “You’re hopeless,” I say.

  She lifts a brow at me. “How so?”

  “You are so in love with Jason Tillson.”

  Red stains her cheeks, then she confesses, “Totally. Just like you’re in love with Patrick Lynn.”

  I’ll give her that one.

  “Say you’ll come,” she prods.

  “I’ll try. Okay? We’ll see if my mood has improved by then.”

  She stands and laughs at me. “I’m sure there’s a pill your mom, the nurse, can give you for your Bah Humbuggery.”

  “Whatev….”

  As Celia exits out the back, the front door of the house bursts open and a melee of feet on the hardwood floor sounds out. My ears are treated to the near-bleeding sensation of the incessant chatter and squealing of fifteen-year-old girls. They pound their way through the dining room and into the kitchen: six sweaty soccer players covered in mud and dirt, now delving through our refrigerator for water and energy drinks.

  “Kaitlin!” I shout. “Mom’s told you not to track through the house after a soccer game.”

  “But we won, Kendall! You don’t understand,” she squeals. “Like, this was the game. Brittney scored the last goal and then I flew in front of our goal to save the game.” Underneath the caked-on red Georgia mud on my sister’s face, I can make out her triumphant grin.

  She moves as if to hug me, but then pulls back.

  “That’s awesome,” I say, still correcting her. “You still don’t need to be in the house like that.”

  She lowers her eyes. “You’re right. Sorry. Hey, you want to see the trophy?”

  I wave off her accomplishment. “Not right now. I’m busy fixing your dress.”

  I don’t need my psychic abilities to read the disappointment on her face. Is she actually reaching out to me? I’m not sure since it’s been so long.

  We both begin to speak. My words are heard first. “Why don’t you guys go out on the deck and I’ll bring the water and stuff out.”

  A weak smile crosses her face. “Thanks, Kendall.” She turns to herd her crew toward the screened-in porch out back.

  Gathering an armload of bottled water and a pack of Double Stuff Oreos, I swing through the door and place the refreshments on the table for Kaitlin and her friends. I know I should be all, like, big sister proud of the little brat and her accomplishment, but it only adds to how everything is all about her these days.

  Kaitlin.

  The real Moorehead daughter.

  Not the adopted one.

  Not like anyone necessarily treats me differently. I just feel different of late.

  “Oh crap! I need to get going,” Kaitlin’s friend, Brittney says with a pout on her face.

  “Why?” Kaitlin asks.

  Brittney tosses a long, white box that she’s been holding up on the table. “I’m supposed to go with my mom and these other ladies to put flowers on the graves at the cemetery for the Daughters of the American Revolution.”

  “You can’t leave. We’re celebrating!” Kaitlin pushes the container toward me. “Kendall can do it.”

  I pop to attention. “Excuse me?”

  “Sure,” my sister says. “You’re all into ghosts and spirits and stuff. Why don’t you go do the flowers for Brittney so she can stay here with us?”

  “Please, Kendall,” Brittney whines, followed by a course of other pleas from the girls.

  Seriously? First, I’m Kaitlin’s seamstress. Now I’m her florist? I stop my annoyance for a minute and think this through. I need to be the bigger person, the big sis, and help out. Kaitlin’s got her posse celebrating with her, so I should give them space and get out of the house.

  “Sure, I’ll do it.”

  “Thanks, Kendall! You’re the best,” Kaitlin says. Then, she surprises the hell out of me by giving me a tight hug. “Really. Thanks.”

  “Ummm… okay.”

  Is my sister actually starting to grow up? Wow. As I’m about to hug her back, she pulls away and returns to her friends. I smile inwardly at the rare sisterly moment that’s literally as long as a finger snap.

  Bundling back up in my coat, I thread my hounds tooth scarf around my neck. Since the sun is setting, the chill in the air is starting to nip a little harder. Not like Chicago lake effect cold, but I’ll take this.

  It takes five minutes for me to walk the small Radisson back streets to the city cemetery, a place I’ve been to many times in my ghost hunting and in my soul searching. This time, I hope to encounter nothing more than the other ladies of the DAR.

  A woman with long, blond hair waves to me. “Kendall, it’s so good to see you, hon.” It’s Mayor Donn Shy. She’s a frequent tarot customer. My friends and I helped clear her house of a belligerent ghost.

  “Hey, there,” I say, returning the greeting. “I’m filling in for Brittney who’s over at my house celebrating a major soccer win.”

  The mayor’s mouth stretches open. “Well, that’s certainly a lot more interesting than honoring the dead.” She laughs and I join in, for no reason.

  “We’ve covered the back lot,” she tells me. “If you can take that section over there, that would be wonderful. Plenty of graves from the American Revolution all the way up to Vietnam. Just place one of the poppies on the headstone, dear.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say with a nod.

  Leaving the white box on a nearby bench, I gather the ruby-red poppies into my hand and start walking the line of graves. An Army sergeant to my left. A Navy seal to the right. An unknown Civil War solider to the left. A WWII nurse on the right. Each receives a flower of memory, an
d I inwardly thank each of them for their service to our country and our freedom.

  As I walk amongst the burial plots, I think of all the souls and spirits I’ve encountered during my psychic awakening. How many I’ve helped crossover into the light, and others who’ve fought me tooth and nail. A certain melancholy covers me as I remember a simpler time when all I worried about at Christmas was if I’d fall asleep early enough so that Santa would deliver the presents on time. Or thoughts of galoshes-ing up and joining the other neighborhood kids as we built snowmen and had fights from our snow forts on each side of the street of our Chicago neighborhood.

  Now, I’m so wrapped up with everyone else’s to-dos, that I’ve pretty much forgotten who I am and what I want. I place a poppy on the tombstone of a Private B. D. Alanis and wonder if his life was spent serving others constantly, or if he ever had a chance to do the things he wanted to do.

  On his headstone sits a marble angel, bent on her knees and her hands folded together in prayer. Peaceful. Serene. And….

  Alive?

  I jump back—you’d think I’d be used to ghosts and spirits by now—as the face of the angel springs to life, her features stretching and yawning as the essence within awakens. Not just awakens, but transforms into a face. One I hadn’t thought of since her funeral last year. I rub my eyes at the apparition in the marble before me. It can’t be.

  Then again, it can. So many strange things have happened to me since moving to Radisson, Georgia.

  The stone angel’s face morphs into that of my dearly departed friend. A Radisson High School cheerleader who was killed in a tragic car accident.

  It couldn’t be, though. I helped her pass into the light. She has no business remaining here.

  I glance over the knoll to the left and see the freshly grown grass plot of Farah Lewis, my classmate, my friend. Then, I turn back to the grave marker where the angel’s face took on Farah’s features. It was her face, but not anymore.

  Surely I’m going nuts, beans, and crackers.

  I stare at the angel again, rattled to my core, fearing that I didn’t do my job and Farah has been relinquished to float the earth in some sort of purgatory.