I close my eyes, trying to remember what the inside of her house looks like. The air around me changes and when I open my eyes, I’m in her kitchen. The storm is still raging outside and above me the simple chandelier flickers. Zoe is standing there, her back to me. Her long, messy brown hair is hanging in loose strands and she’s in what I assume are her pajamas, her feet bare.
The lights flicker again, harder this time, and she turns to face me, a glass of milk and a plate of pizza in her hands. I watch as her eyes focus on me and I can’t help the momentary feeling of relief.
She really can see me, even now. Whatever had happened at the funeral home hadn’t been an isolated incident. Then as I stare into her doe eyes, they widen, her face pales, and I see her mouth open. The plate and glass slip from her fingers and crash to the floor, shattering in every direction.
I hold out my hands in front of me.
“Don’t move,” I say calmly.
Then she screams.
***
Zoe steps backwards, which is exactly the wrong thing to do, and I hear the glass crunch under her foot. She cries out, lifting her foot and getting off balance. She falls backward into the shards of white plate and clear glass.
“Stop moving,” I order. “You’re going to cut yourself to shreds.”
She screams again, this time the sound is hoarse, like she can’t quite get her vocal cords to cooperate. I sigh, rolling my eyes.
“Will you please stop screaming? Seriously Zoe.”
Her mouth clamps shut, but she’s still breathing heavy, her face flushed. I wait, folding my arms across my chest, for her to relax and process.
“What are you doing here?” she manages finally.
I don’t miss a beat with my response.
“What am I doing here, as in in your kitchen, or do you mean here in more general terms? As in why am I not—”
She cuts me off.
“Rotting in the ground somewhere?”
I feel my nose crinkle at the thought.
“I was going to say dead, but thanks for the vivid.”
She frowns at me skeptically then turns her arm to examine the damage. A thin line of blood is dripping from her elbow, a small sliver of glass stuck in the skin.
“I’m bleeding,” she complains.
“That’s what happens when you fall into a pile of broken glass.”
She shoots me a nasty glare.
“Shut up Logan.”
Ah, yes, that’s the Zoe I remember. Brave, yes. Clever, yes. And with a mouth that could make a sailor blush.
She grabs the glass sliver with two fingers and pulls. The blood flows faster, but she doesn’t seem to be too bothered by it. She tosses the sliver aside and sets her forearm against the floor, using it to push away the remaining glass and clear a path.
She examines her cut foot for only a moment before grabbing the fridge door and hoisting herself to her feet. She steps around the glass carefully, her eyes trained on the slate grey tile floor, and limps down the hallway to the bathroom.
I follow and turn the corner just in time to see her close the lid on the toilet and take a seat, a large white plastic box on her lap. Silently I watch her clean a large gash on the bottom of her foot then tend to her arm. I lean against the counter and cross my ankles.
“That probably needs stitches,” I offer softly, not wanting to freak her out anymore than I already have.
She doesn’t look up but I swear she looks a little green. I didn’t know that actually happened to people. If I had to guess, I’d say she was trying very hard not to puke.
She puts a band-aid over the cut on her arm then closes her eyes tightly. Though she doesn’t make a sound, I can see her lips moving as she counts to ten before opening her eyes again.
“Still here,” I say, waving my hands.
“Why?” she asks, and her tone isn’t angry or afraid, it just sounds tired.
“Why what?”
“Why are you here? And what exactly are you?”
She finally looks up, and her eyes are rimmed with red, the tip of her nose pink, like she’s about to cry. I swallow.
“I’m here because for some weird reason you can see me when no one else can.”
I try not to let my irritation leak into my voice, but it’s hard. Why, of all people, did it have to be Zoe? This is like some bad cosmic joke.
“Why can I see you?” she asks.
My brow furrows as I realize she has no idea what’s happening any more than I do.
“Do you see dead people often?” I ask tensely.
She tilt her head, giving me a duh look.
“No. You’re the first.”
I throw my hands in the air, beyond frustrated. I’ve spent days like this—the invisible dead guy—and now that someone can see me, not only is it the last person on the planet I want to deal with, but she’s completely useless to boot.
“Great. Just freaking great. The one person who can see me, and she has no idea what’s going on.” I don’t realize I’m speaking out loud until I catch her eye, and see the silent hurt swimming there. I soften my tone. “I was really hoping you’d have some answers.”
The hurt in her eye is quickly replaced with a flare of anger.
“Well, I don’t. So maybe you should just,” she hesitates, waving her hand. “You know. Go.”
I raise one eyebrow.
“Go where exactly?” This wasn’t exactly a vacation. My options were pretty limited at the moment.
She stands up in a huff. “I don’t know! Go into the light or something. Shit, what do I look like? A ghost expert?”
I try to keep calm.
“You look like the only person who can see or hear me,” I answer honestly. What I should have said was thank you, I realize a moment too late. Thank you for seeing me, because, it means I’m not crazy. And I’m not alone.
She sighs and pinches her nose.
“This isn’t happening. This is some bad dream.”
My face falls into a frown, the last of my anger dying away in a wash of relief.
I’m not alone anymore.
I hold onto that thought.
“Yeah, that’s what I told myself too. For days I stood in my living room screaming at my parents while they sobbed over my picture. I thought I was losing my mind. Then I followed them to the funeral. And I saw you.”
And you saw me. I don’t say it out loud, but the words hang between us like an invisible white flag.
She motions for me to move and I step aside. She puts the first aid box away under the sink and leads me to her room. It hasn’t changed much over the years. Same thick emerald green comforter, same old high backed floral print chair in front of a tiny TV. The only changes are a large oak desk and a laptop. As I step further inside I realize the room even smells like her, a distinctive smell something like honeysuckle, but not quite. It brings back a lot of memories, things I hadn’t thought of in years.
She flops into the old chair and kicks her feet over the arm.
“This is exactly why I don’t go to funerals,” she mutters.
My eyebrow arches again, this time in disbelief.
“This is why you don’t go to funerals?”
She shrugs, brushing her hair over her shoulder with a flip of her hand.
“Fine, not this exactly. But nothing good ever comes from funerals. People are always like, you should go, get some closure. But that’s all a load of crap. All it is, is another way to traumatize yourself.”
I don’t want to stop her and tell her that I disagree, so I just let her rant.
“Just more bad memories to heap onto the pile,” she says finally, her voice small at the end. I know from her far away expression the funeral she’s thinking of, and it isn’t mine. We’d been young when her dad died. Zoe’s mother had given her a single red rose to put on his coffin. Though I was sitting across from her, I watched her clutch the stem so tightly, that tiny crimson drops leaked from between her clenched fingers. But her face
was always placid, clam, as if she were a million miles away. I thought it was brave. It wasn’t until much later that I recognized the expression for what it really was.
Broken.
I sit on the edge of her bed and relax into the soft mattress. Her black cat Brimstone, which had to be a million years old by now, arches her back and hisses right at me before leaping off the bed and darting from the room.
“Looks like you aren’t the only one who can see me,” I say jokingly.
“That bi-polar cat is not proof that you aren’t just a figment of my over caffeinated, over Poe’d imagination.”
I shake my head.
“This is getting old. How can I prove I’m really here?”
She sits up, looking at me like she wants to shoot darts into my face.
“I don’t know. Being haunted is new to me, can you give me a minute to come to grips, please?”
I lean back, “Fine. One minute. Clock starts now.”
Sitting up in the chair she grabs a small pillow from behind her back and lobs it at me, only instead of impacting me, it just passes right through.
“Well, I suppose I should have expected that,” she mutters with a frown.
I roll my eyes.
“What are you in such a hurry for anyway? You kind of have, forever, right?”
She pauses, a look of utter terror crossing her face.
“Oh my God. You aren’t going to haunt me forever, right? I mean, this isn’t going to be my life now. Being followed around by an arrogant, pain in the ass ghost?”
I grin.
“Keep up the flattery and I just might.”
She leans back in the chair.
“I hate my life,” she complains.
Her words are like a swift slap in the face, sharp and quick.
“You know, that’s a pretty bitchy thing to say in front of a guy who no longer has one.”
She sits up quickly, her eyes snapping open. I see the guilt wash over her. Maybe it’s just because I’ve known her so long, but her face is an open book, every emotion raw and expressed in the tilt of her chin or the curve of her mouth.
“Sorry,” she says quickly.
I shrug, though the sting of her words linger.
“Are you cold?” she asks, her head cocked in a funny angle.
I look down at myself trying to figure out what would make her ADD little brain wonder that.
“Nope. I don’t really feel temperature at all.”
Her puzzlement continues.
“Why are you wearing clothes?” she asks out of nowhere.
It takes me a minute to recover. I smile provocatively. “Why? Were you hoping for a naked haunting?”
She huffs.
“Please, you don’t have the figure for nudity.”
I snort. I may not be a Hollister model, but even I knew better than that.
“Oh, I really do.”
She bristles uncomfortably.
“Well, I see your ego is still intact.”
I lean to the side, stretching out across her bed, staring at her playfully.
She glares. “No offence, but would you not do that on my bed?”
I grin again. “What? Be sexy?”
Her words are quick, a knife to my stomach.
“No, be dead.”
I stand up quickly, wishing once again that it had been anyone else on the freaking planet that I could communicate with. Because dead or not, I was going to throttle the girl.
I open my mouth to tell her as much but she’s making that funny face again, like a kid trying to figure out a magic trick.
“Oh, go ahead. I can practically see the hamster wheel in your brain smoking. Ask me whatever.”
“Do you eat?”
I shake my head. “No. Not hungry either. Which is good, since I can’t actually touch anything.”
“What are you standing on?” she asks relentlessly. “If you can’t touch anything, what keeps your feet on the floor?”
I look down at my boots. That’s a really good question.
“Good question. I don’t know.”
I take a deep breath, and imagine myself falling through the floor. Suddenly, I’m sinking.
“Huh,” I mumble when the floor is at my waist. Then I think of being above the floor and I float back up, my feet hovering a few feet off the carpet.
I look at Zoe, expecting her to be pleased, but she’s waving at me like a crazy person.
“No, no. Stop that. That’s too creepy to process.”
I shrug and allow myself to float down until my feet are once more on solid ground.
“How do you get around? Do you just walk?”
I shrug again.
“I can ride on things, in cars. I rode around with Kaylee for a few hours at first, in her Camaro.”
I frown at the memory. Kaylee Greely was my girlfriend of two years, yet it seemed like my death was barely fazing her at all. I knew she was cold, but that, I had to admit, was pretty low even for her.
I push the thought away and continue. “But, after I saw you leave the wake, I waited around to see everyone pay their respects.”
“That must have been strange,” Zoe offers.
I nod just a little.
“People wanted to say goodbye. I figured I should give them the chance.”
She nods too.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her tone sincere.
“Why?” I can’t help but ask.
“I dunno. For calling you a douche wrench at your own funeral,” she answers.
“Douche hammer,” I correct her. “You called me a douche hammer.”
She shrugs, “I knew it was some kind of tool.”
I can’t help but grin. “Well, we weren’t exactly close.”
“And face it, you are a tool.”
I can tell by her expression that she’s joking so I smile.
“I guess the million dollar question is – What exactly do you want from me?” she asks seriously.
I cross the room, squatting down at her feet.
“When you saw me at the funeral, I was terrified. Because that means I was really dead, not just having some prolonged nightmare.” I begin slowly. “But then I was relieved too because, I guess I hoped that you could help me.”
She takes a deep breath, her shoulders relaxing. I’d forgotten how pretty she was. Her round chin, the way her dark eyes are set perfectly in her face, the light dusting of freckles barely visible across her nose. She is stunning really, and if she ever let someone get close enough without biting his head off, he would surely see it too.
“Help you what?” she asks.
I scratch my chin, still balancing on the balls of my feet.
“I dunno. Help me figure all this out. Help me just…not be so alone.”
She leans forward. Her voice isn’t mean, but her words hold a simple truth.
“Why should I? Like you said, we aren’t friends.”
I sit back on my heels, surprised by her question.
“We used to be,” I say.
She makes a face, as if she’s unimpressed with my answer.
“That was a long time ago.”
I stare at her and watch her crack a grin. She’s messing with me. I breathe a sigh of relief.
“How about this,” I offer. “You’re going to have to pee some time. And when you do, I’ll be there.”
She makes a disgusted face.
“Fine. Where do we start?”
I nod to her computer.
“Where all strange and possibly evil things begin. Wikipedia.”
So what if Logan was dead? I mean, it’s not like he owed me money or anything. I pause at the top of the stairs, letting my mom move around me and walk inside. To my left a group of girls are holding each other and ugly crying. I try to assure myself that the display is genuine and has nothing to do with the swarm of reporters behind me, their cameras clicking like insects.
“I bet not one of those girls even knew Logan,” I grumb
le.
“Firstly, everyone knew Logan. And secondly, quit being such a judgy-Mc judge-sickle.”
To my right, Carlos holds out his hand, which I take and allow him to lead me inside and down the hall. Leaning over he whispers in my ear.
“I can’t believe you wore that.”
I look down at my dark jeans, carefully tucked into tall brown boots. My steel grey scarf hangs over my light tan sweater. I’d even taken the time to throw my long brown hair into a messy bun.
“We can’t all afford to look like movie stars,” I mumble back.
Carlos, with his rich brown skin and dark hair looks like he should be on a billboard somewhere, and the dark fitted suit he’s wearing only enhances the effect. He’s gorgeous. One of those genetically gifted boys who could bat his eyelashes and have any girl he wanted. You know, if he actually wanted girls. He weaves our arms together and pulls me up to a tall pedestal with an open book laying on it. A few people in front of us are signing in like they are registering for a giveaway at the mall. I shift uncomfortably.
“Relax, Zoe. It isn’t a funeral. Just a viewing.”
I shake my head, “That’s even worse.” I lower my voice so no one else can hear, “Who would want to look at a dead body? I mean, it’s just kinda twisted, right?”
He pats my hand. “Closure, darling. It’s a chance to say goodbye.”
“I said goodbye to Logan a long time ago,” I say while looking ahead at the room beyond the pedestal. Rows of neatly assembled chairs are nearly filled with people from our quiet little town. Some are talking, most crying. A few are just texting or playing on their phones. I feel my breathing pick up as a warmth spreads under my skin and wraps tightly around my chest. I shudder and it slices down my spine like electricity.
“You guys were friends, right?”
I feel the frown on my face. Friends. Yeah, right.
“Our parents were friends when we were little,” I say dismissively. The truth is, once we hit middle school, everything had changed between us. He got popular, and I got weird. We went our separate ways and never spoke again. Here we are, getting ready to start our senior year, and Logan would have been the reigning king of the school. I, however, am doomed to spending another year eating lunch in the drama department with Carlos while he updates his vlog, watching the school lacrosse games from under the bleachers, and spending my Friday nights reading in my bedroom. Not that there’s anything wrong with any of that. A shove from behind pushes me into the group in front of me. Kaylee Greely brushes past us. She and her entourage of well dressed clones don’t bother to wait in line, they go straight to the front and the crowd parts for them. Scribbling quickly like she’s signing an autograph she strides into the main viewing room, not even bothering to remove her large sunglasses as she takes a seat in the front row. As Logan’s girlfriend, I feel a genuine twinge of sympathy for her. Right up until she pulls out her compact and reapplies her lip gloss with a loud smack of her lips.
Haunting Zoe Page 2
