Haunted

by Alexandra Adornetto

  “Okay, listen,” I told Alex, trying to sound like a gal with a plan. “I’m going to help you figure this out. You have my word. But my father just got home from work and he can’t know about any of this. We have to keep it between us, okay? I really can’t stress that enough.”

  “Is your father not to be trusted?” Alex asked.

  “It’s not that. Try thinking of it like Frodo and the ring — he has to keep it secret to keep it safe.”

  “Is this Frodo a friend of yours?”

  I bit my lip. Sam and Natalie had put a non-negotiable ban on all my Lord of the Rings references, but they still slipped out from time to time.

  “Never mind, it’s just a story,” I told Alex. “But I meant what I said about keeping this a secret. Other people might not understand. So let me do the talking, okay?”

  He agreed, and we headed into the kitchen, where my dad was already opening a bottle of wine and pouring himself a generous glass. That seemed to be his custom these days, and by the end of the night the bottle was invariably empty.

  My dad was a partner at a top accounting firm in the city, but he’d never really enjoyed his job. The first thing he used to do when he got home was kick off his shiny shoes, throw on a Bobby Darin record and start telling stories about all the hotshot d-bags he’d had to deal with that day. Now he seemed to live for work. It was all he had time to think about. Since getting back from England, he hadn’t once set foot in his workshop and all the pieces of furniture he once worked on so lovingly were abandoned like dusty skeletons. To be honest, he didn’t even look like my dad any more. He didn’t bother changing when he got home, he just stayed in that stupid starched shirt and tie all night. What happened to the man who used to laugh and talk about his old Pendleton jacket like it was his best friend? That man seemed to have died alongside my mother, replaced by some cold corporate cut-out who was more or less a stranger to Rory and me.

  “Hi, Chloe,” he said without looking up. “What happened to your car?”

  “No idea,” I said flatly. What else could I say?

  “Well, get it fixed. If you get pulled over, you’ll be fined.” If only a fine were the worst of my worries right now, I thought.

  “I’ll take care of it,” I replied. “This is my friend Alex.”

  Dad turned around. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise we had company. It’s very nice to meet you, Alex.”

  They shook hands and my father introduced himself, but Alex didn’t say a word in response. I realised he was taking my let me do the talking instructions literally.

  “So are you two in school together?” my dad went on.

  He asked the question in a perfunctory manner, like he was a news reporter on a routine assignment he couldn’t care less about. Every time he spoke to us now, it felt like he was checking the basics off some mental list, like he’d much rather be someplace else. Are you eating properly? Are your grades decent? Did you remember to take out the trash? I thought it ironic that he expected us to eat properly yet never actually ate with us to make sure we were. He wanted us to work hard at school, but I’d bet fifty bucks he had no idea what classes we were taking. He kept using the word responsible. “Be responsible, Chloe” he’d tell me on a weekly basis. Really, Dad, that’s the only gem of paternal wisdom you’ve got to impart? I could be shooting up in my closet or facilitating orgies on a Friday night for all he knew, but apparently use of the phrase be responsible concluded his parental responsibility. It was like the real challenges of parenting were beyond him.

  “Actually Alex is new to the area,” I said. “I’m showing him around.”

  “That’s nice.” Dad was about to move away when Alex’s appearance seemed to stop him. “So where do you hail from?” he asked.

  For the first time it struck me how odd Alex must seem to someone who didn’t know him. He had the pale skin of a vampire, the long hair of a drifter and the shadowy eyes of a war survivor. He was still beautiful but in a very tortured way. In other words, he looked like trouble — not a father’s first pick for his vulnerable teenage daughter.

  Alex, who seemed to have gone completely mute, looked at me in alarm. It was my fault: I shouldn’t have told him not to speak. But I hadn’t expected his improvisation skills to be so underdeveloped. We were going to have to work on that.

  “From the other side of the pond, actually,” I said, choosing an expression I never used. Perhaps I thought it would better explain his strangeness. “Alex is British.”

  Dad smiled as if that did indeed explain everything. “I see you’ve found a way to bring England to America, Chloe.”

  “You have no idea,” I replied, although Alex resurfacing in my life was not a result of anything I’d done.

  “I was just about to order some food,” my dad told us, failing to notice the lasagne almost ready in the oven. He turned to Alex. “You’re more than welcome to stay.”

  “Thanks, he’d love to,” I piped up.

  “For God’s sake, Chloe, I’m sure the young man can speak for himself. Do you like Chinese, Alex?”

  Alex blinked, clearly confused by the question. Was he being asked about the Chinese language, or the Chinese people? He settled on the safest answer. “Yes. I do.”

  “Great.”

  “Why don’t you wait for me upstairs?” I took Alex’s arm and propelled him through the doorway. “My room is first on the right, and the sonnets are on the top shelf. Maybe we can get started on that essay? I’ll be up in just a second.”

  Okay, so the execution was artless, but I needed to get Alex out of there before Dad started asking more probing questions. I could tell he was gearing up to delve deeper than food preferences.

  Alex obliged, glancing back at me from the foot of the stairs. His expression was so miserable and misplaced, I felt a pang just looking at him. I tried to give him my most reassuring smile but wasn’t sure I pulled it off.

  “So,” Dad said once Alex was gone, “doing homework together?”

  “Yeah … why?”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “It’s really not.”

  “Is he a friend or more of a friend?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  “Don’t do that,” I snapped, although I wasn’t surprised by his sudden interest. When was the last time I’d brought a guy home? That would be never.

  Mom even tried to have a talk with me about it once. “You don’t have to like boys, Chloe. People are people, you can like anyone you want.”

  “I don’t think I’m gay, Mom, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

  “Well, we love you whatever you do, honey.”

  Truth be told, before I fell for Alex I’d actually come to the conclusion that I was asexual. I just didn’t notice people that way. Sam could look at a guy and be seized by a burning desire to tear his clothes off. That never happened with me, no matter how sculpted his abs were. It wasn’t really that way with Alex either. Of course I appreciated his physical beauty, but I didn’t think of him as hot or sexy or cute or any of those banal words that didn’t mean anything. He was utterly bewitching in every sense of the word. I didn’t just love him, I adored him. I knew that now. He’d only been back in my life for a few hours and already everything I felt for him was rushing back, hitting me like a tidal wave. But I couldn’t afford to let that show. Not yet anyway.

  “Just don’t give him a hard time, alright?” I said to Dad. “Try and be cool.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m the epitome of cool,” he replied breezily.

  “That is definitely not true, and I’m serious. He’s really private. Don’t ask him personal questions.”

  “Yes, sergeant. Anything else?”

  “No jokes. Under any circumstances.”

  “He doesn’t like jokes?” My father got that old cheeky twinkle in his eye. For a split second I saw a glimmer of his old self that made me miss our playful banter.

  “He’s British,” I reinforced.

  Tha
t excuse seemed to work for everything because my dad nodded. “Don’t worry, I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

  “Thanks. Can you pull the lasagne out when the timer goes off?”

  “What lasagne?”

  I just rolled my eyes and headed for the stairs. I wanted to get up to my room before Alex did anything like wander off. Then it occurred to me that I had no idea what I was going to do with him after dinner. He couldn’t stay here. Despite his jesting, my dad would never allow that. Yet I couldn’t let Alex go off by himself either. He needed protection until he remembered who he was. There were all sorts of dangers that could befall him out there and it made me nervous just thinking about them. Maybe I could hide him someplace and make him promise to stay put. But he wasn’t some trinket I could lock in a drawer for safekeeping.

  When I reached my bedroom I was surprised to find the door closed. I knocked out of habit, because my mom taught me never to barge in on someone. “You never know what you might barge in on,” she used to say, and I figured the rule still applied here even if the room I was walking into was my own.

  There was no answer so I knocked again, louder this time. Nothing.

  I turned the handle and burst in to find my bedroom empty.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  My heart sank. I could have kicked myself for leaving Alex alone. He was still disoriented and confused by what had happened; I should have known he’d go straight for the front door. But as I looked around, it seemed that he had been in my room after all. The items on my desk had shifted slightly, and the book of sonnets lay open on my bed as if he’d been reading them only moments ago. There was even an indentation on my duvet where he must have been sitting.

  What could have scared him off like that? And why didn’t I pass him in the hall? The only other way out was through the window. But that was a two-storey jump, and besides I could see the window lock hadn’t been opened.

  I ran back to the landing, whispering his name. “Alex! Alex, where are you? Can you hear me?” Even though my gut told me not to expect an answer, I couldn’t help hoping.

  I forced myself to walk calmly through the house checking every room. This was my second Alex-related search of the day and the stress was beginning to take its toll. Where the hell had he disappeared to? Why hadn’t he said anything? Just when I thought he was starting to trust me …

  The TV was blaring in the den and I wondered if Alex had found his way in there and become mesmerised by modern technology. But it was only Rory, back from his swim meet and glued to a cartoon show. He was sharing a bowl of Lucky Charms with Darcy.

  “Hey!” he yelled when I switched off the television and marched out of the room still holding the remote. He spent too many hours sprawled on the couch these days, but I would save that lecture for later.

  “Do your homework,” I called over my shoulder. “And stop ruining your appetite. There’s lasagne in the oven.”

  Wherever Alex had gone, he certainly hadn’t left by the front door as he would have passed right by the kitchen where Dad and I had been talking. Where was he? What if he got lost? What if something bad happened to him? I’d never felt more protective of anyone, except maybe my little brother, and it was causing a slippery feeling in my stomach.

  Stop it, I told myself. Alex is a grown man, not some puppy stranded on the highway.

  So why didn’t I trust that he’d be safe out there? Maybe it was because of the alarm bells ringing so loudly in my head I could barely think.

  Ten minutes later, I’d concluded my second loop through the house and also searched the backyard. Circling around to the front porch, I realised I’d been holding my breath and my lungs were now aching for air.

  I was surprised to find my dad sitting on the front steps, lighting up a cigarette. As I watched him blow smoke at the amethyst-streaked sky, I couldn’t help wondering what my mother would say if she could see him. She was a health nut and thought smoking was the most irresponsible thing in the world. She called cigarettes cancer sticks and Dad supported her all the way. But stress could do strange things to people and Dad had had more than his share over the past six months. Was it really fair of me to sit in judgment?

  “I didn’t know you’d taken up smoking,” I said. I sat beside him and picked up the packet. “Camel Crush, huh? That’s what Natalie smokes.”

  “I guess I have teenage-girl tastes,” he replied. “I know it’s a disgusting habit.”

  “Disgusting,” I agreed as I slid out a cigarette, put it to my lips and lit up. I guess I wanted to test whether he’d let me get away with it … whether he still cared enough to object.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

  “Hey, I’m stressed too.”

  But Dad shook his head, snatched the cigarette from my lips and stomped it out under his heel. “Don’t do that again, Chloe. My bad habits are my own. Your mother would never forgive me if I let you smoke. Now what happened to your friend?”

  “He had to leave,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. For some reason I didn’t want my dad to know I cared.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s not like that.” The last thing I wanted was pity from my father. “He had a family emergency.”

  “Well, that’s a shame. He seemed nice. A little out of it maybe, but nice. He wasn’t high, was he?”

  “No, Dad, he’s just shy.”

  “If you say so. Oh, by the way, a package came for you today.”

  “Really?”

  I hardly ever got mail of any kind. I’d complained about it once to my mom and she’d assured me that when I was older and had bills to pay, I would miss the days of no mail.

  “It’s from your grandmother,” Dad said. “When she phoned last week she mentioned she was sending you something. I think she really misses having you and Rory around.”

  I smiled. “I miss her too. Good old Hurricane Fiona.”

  Gran’s package was a welcome relief as it provided me with something concrete to do so I didn’t obsess over Alex. It wasn’t like I could text or call him to find out where he was. I had no choice but to wait. So I went inside to the hall table where Gran’s brown-paper package was waiting for me. It looked very official with its stamp that read Royal Mail.

  I went upstairs to my room where I knew I wouldn’t be interrupted and could open it in private. As I settled on my patchwork duvet, I couldn’t help sneaking glances at the window and door. Where was my self-control? But Alex had left so suddenly, how could I be sure he wouldn’t reappear in the same abrupt fashion? Even though I seriously doubted he was going to come in through the window, I got up and threw it open anyway. Just in case he decided to stage a Peter Pan-inspired reappearance.

  I could focus better with the window open and the cool breeze hitting the back of my neck. I tore off the brown paper. Inside were two smaller parcels and a vanilla-coloured envelope. I opened the envelope first. It was so lovely, I wished we had a letter opener so I could avoid tearing it. But this was California; I didn’t know anyone who would even know what to do with a letter opener. I took out the creamy letter paper and held it for a moment, marvelling at the fact that someone had actually taken the time to sit down and write to me. Grandma Fee’s graceful cursive script filled the page that felt like velvet beneath my fingertips and smelled faintly of rosewater. Besides the odd birthday card from distant relatives, this was the first handwritten letter I’d ever received.

  It read as follows:

  Dearest Chloe,

  I hope you are happy and healthy and staying out of the Californian sun. You know how punishing it can be on the skin! I wish I could have kept you and Rory here with me forever, but I know you both have lives to get back to. You were only at Grange Hall for a short while, but I watched you change in that time and saw glimpses of the woman you will grow up to be. You demonstrated courage and a trueness of self that made me very proud to be your grandmother. I will always look back on our time together with the fondest
of memories.

  You will be pleased to hear that Joe Parrish is almost fully recovered and has now gone back to school. He cannot work with the horses just yet, but he still visits the stables at weekends and asks after you every time.

  I know this is a big year for you, Chloe, with graduation only a few months away. My goodness, how time flies! I’ve already spoken with your father and I will be flying out to watch you graduate in June. Even if you are sick of me, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

  I don’t know if you recall the old outhouse by the lake, but for some time now I have been wanting to convert it into something more useful. I’m pleased to announce that my plans are finally in motion and renovations are underway to turn it into a day spa for my guests. Perhaps this will be an enticement for you to visit again in the future?

  Before the workmen arrived, Harry and I spent a few days clearing out the space. It was mostly full of junk — dusty old portraits and moth-eaten furniture that shall be discarded or donated to the local charity shop. But I did keep a few souvenirs that looked too special to part with, one of which I have enclosed for you. I do hope you like it. It’s a valuable antique so perhaps don’t wear it every day, but take it out whenever you are missing Grange Hall, and know that you will always have a home here.

  Give Rory a hug from me.

  Your loving grandmother.

  I folded the letter carefully and put it away in the drawer of my nightstand. Since returning home I’d tried hard to keep my mind off Grange Hall, but Gran’s letter had plunged me right back into the life of the old house and I realised it would always have a hold on me, even with thousands of miles between us. It was in that house that I’d fallen in love with Alex, a troubled nineteenth-century ghost whose mad ex-lover had tried to murder me, Joe Parrish and a whole bunch of other innocent teenagers. Now Alex was back, only neither of us knew why or how it had happened.

  Mark Twain was right, I thought: Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; truth isn’t.