Halloween is almost
here, and I’m looking forward to pilfering the good chocolates from my
daughters’ “trick or treat” stashes. It’s
the best part of the holiday, really. But
I also look forward to ghost stories. I
dig the paranormal. Maybe it comes from
childhood sleepovers where we’d scare each other silly with goofy whispered
tales about men with hooks for hands, or maybe it has to do with Edgar Allen
Poe and the dang bird that wouldn’t shut up.
Whatever the cause, I do rather relish stories about “ghosties and
ghoulies and things that go bump in the night.”
I suppose that’s why the very
first book I wrote a few years ago involved the supernatural. So, here is the first chapter from my first
attempt at writing a novel. It’s a “young
adult” novel, but since I’m the one who wrote it, it’s tame compared to a lot
of what’s out there. No horny teenage
vampires or children killing each other for sport. Sorry. J
NO GHOSTS ALLOWED
By: Rebecca Bischoff
CHAPTER ONE
A
Former Tenant Has Refused to Leave
My
name is Harley. Harley Davidson Colburn.
I was named after a motorcycle. (Thanks Mom. Really).
Most people don’t look twice at me. I’m fourteen years old, in the ninth
grade, and average in everything: grades,
height, and looks. I’m the kid who
flies under the radar, the middle of the road one who teachers mainly ignore
because I’m not brilliant, but I don’t need extra help, either.
So,
most people don’t look twice at me, but that’s because they don’t know anything
about me. Like my motorcycle name, for
instance. I’m honestly happy to keep
that little secret. But there’s also the
fact that sometimes I know when things are going to happen. I have premonitions. And what’s the most unusual thing about
me? I see ghosts. Well, so far, only one ghost. This is new.
I
first saw the ghost the day my family moved into our new/old house. Until about a month before that, I never even
knew we owned a house. My parents never
talked about it. It’s an old house Brian
inherited, and he rented it out for a little money. That was, until things changed and we needed
a place to live. My mother, brother and
I, that is.
Our
house is eighty years old and looks like it.
And smells like it. It’s a plain
white box made out of rotting wood, with a rickety porch stuck onto the front. It crouches on a corner lot, at the edge of a
busy street, with a narrow triangle-shaped yard, surrounded by a sagging chain
link fence. Not my idea of a great place
to live.
It
hadn’t taken us long to unpack. Most
people have moving trucks full of furniture and boxes when they relocate. But we’d moved twice already over the past
few months, and we’d already sold a lot of stuff. We’d
‘downsized’ our lives, like my Mom, Stephanie, kept saying. Parent-speak for: ‘We’re broke, so we’re
selling the big screen TV, the good furniture and the Wii. Get used to it.’
A
group of four teenage boys had watched us from the porch of a house down the
street as we unloaded our pathetic belongings.
I recognized one of my brother’s friends from school. The one with the weird new-agey name. Zen, that’s it. Ha. He
yelled ‘hey’ to my little brother and my brother waved back. Not one of the boys offered to help.
Cigarette
smoke floated in our direction on the icy wind, along with occasional shouts
and a lot of laughter. I heard one of
the boys take bets on whether or not my mother would make it inside; or if she
would drop the heavy, ancient computer monitor she carried. I’ll admit that at first, I decided it would
serve her right if she did drop it, since she’d kept that antique piece of crap
and sold the big, and I might add, light-weight, flat screen monitor. But the moment that thought flashed to my
mind I also felt terrible for having thought it in the first place. Anyway, my mother is pretty strong. She struggled into the house without dropping
anything. The smoker boys were
disappointed.
So
it took us all of twenty minutes to unload the miniature U-Haul attached to our
dented 1993 Mercury. The winter sun was
low in the sky, and soon it was hidden behind some charcoal clouds. Our new street got dark. Most neighborhoods in Twin Falls have street
lights. Not mine.
The
smoker boys went inside their house to find someone else to annoy, and I fished
the last box out of the U-Haul and lugged it up the creaking porch steps. I had
to kick off my shoes inside the front door; since my mother had steam-cleaned
the carpets and they were still drying. Once
inside, it didn’t take long to get to the back of the house. It’s easy to navigate through empty rooms. Of course, since I am a tiny bit clumsy, it
was also easy to bump into the one obstacle in the otherwise empty hallway.
“Oops, sorry Steph—Mom,” I said. Uh oh.
Another slip-up. But this time,
all I got was an evil-eyed stare and Steph just stalked down the hall to her
room. I’ve been thinking of my mother by
her given name for a while now.
Why? I’m not totally sure,
although I know the mental shift started a while ago, after Brian died. Steph hates when I don’t call her “Mom.” I have to be careful.
Oh
well, off the hook this time. I shuffled
past the two bedrooms along the narrow hallway.
Stephanie was in the biggest one.
Her door was open and I peeked inside.
She sat cross-legged on the floor with a humongous pile of envelopes in
her lap. A mail carrier had brought them
the moment we’d arrived, in a huge plastic bin.
I think the lady was waiting for us.
She seemed glad to get rid of all those letters. Well, bills, actually. I recognized the “official-looking” white
envelopes. Hospital bills. I figure this is why we’ve moved so much
lately. Maybe Steph thinks that if we
move enough, the bills will stop following us.
Steph
stared down at the stack of bills, with deep lines between her eyes. I know what she’s thinking, and I agree. It isn’t fair. It seems like when the patient dies, you
shouldn’t have to pay the hospital. I
mean, they didn’t do their job. They
didn’t keep their patient alive.
I
moved away before my mother saw me and continued down the hall. My brother, Jax, got the next bedroom. The second biggest. He’d
claimed it before I could. He was
already inside his room, too. The door
was closed, but I heard him finger his electric guitar and run through the
chorus of a song he’d written. I continued on through the kitchen and the
little laundry room. My arms were about
to fall off, but I finally made it to the door of my bedroom. Yes, my room is in the back of the house, and
to get to it, I have to go through the laundry room.
Aching
arms finally gave way and the heavy box I’d been carrying began to slip from my
grasp. Something hard flew out of the
box and landed on my foot. I yelped and dropped the entire box, which landed
on the same foot, so I plopped down onto the carpet to rub my throbbing toes. The hard object at fault was a small metal
wrench that somehow ended up in my box of books. It was the wrench Brian gave me for my tenth birthday. I should just throw it away. Rubbing toes and blinking back tears, I
kicked the wrench away with my uninjured foot.
Suddenly I had two injured feet. I forgot I’d taken off my shoes thanks to the
damp carpet.
I
blinked away my pain-caused tears and looked around the tiny rectangle of a
room. It was so much worse from what I
had remembered seeing the other day, when I’d taken a quick peak from the
outside through the grimy window. There
were faded curtains that covered the row of four small windows that lined up
along the outer wall. The curtains had
roosters on them. My room was decorated
with farm animals. I made a mental note
to redecorate.
Despite
its recent cleaning, the still-stained carpet looked like a bacteria farm. I felt something rough under my left foot
and scooted back. The spiky patch of
carpet I’d felt looked like something sticky had been poured onto that spot but
never cleaned, so that it had hardened
into this greenish mass of petrified carpet fibers. I jumped to my feet and backed away.
How
was I supposed to sleep in this grungy room?
I took a deep breath to make myself calm down, but smells flooded my nose
and I wanted to puke. The odor was a bizarre mixture of dust,
mildewy wet carpet and rotting vegetation, but with a tiny hint of something
sweet, like a bouquet of flowers in the middle of a garbage dump. My stomach clenched and my heart
pounded. The smell scared me. The combination of rot with sweet. It reminded me of things I didn’t want to
think about. It reminded me of funerals and goodbyes. It
reminded me of Brian.
“Mom? Mom!”
No
answer. I rolled my eyes. Of course, no one would hear me back
here. Certainly not Stephanie. My mother wasn’t deaf, but I’d swear she
pretended she was. Maybe it was easier
that way.
“Why
are you screeching like that, Harl?” My
brother’s voice was loud in my ear and I yelped.
Jax’s
head and shoulders poked through the inside wall of my room. He looked like a creepy hunting trophy
mounted onto the cracked wall. I had to
laugh. I’d forgotten about the open
window that joined my room to my brother’s.
“Ouch! There’s glass down here!” Jax scooted back and fingered the bottom edge
of the open window. At one time, the
square hole in the wall had been a window to the outside, but at some point a
previous owner had decided to add another room.
Hence, my closet-sized bedroom.
They stuck this tiny rectangle onto the house, but left the window in
the wall. And, apparently left some
glass stuck in the bottom of the frame.
“Did you cut yourself?” I asked.
“Aw,
so nice for you to be concerned.” Jax’s amber
eyes sparkled and he grinned his Cheshire cat, toothy watermelon-slice smile
that girls at school seem to go crazy over.
“But
no worries. I like it. This will be my ‘no trespassing’ warning to a
certain person on the other side who might be a little too nosy for her own
good.” He wiggled his eyebrows.
“Right,
like I’d ever want to go in your room.
It probably stinks.”
“Can’t
smell as bad as your room does. What is
that stench, anyway?” Jax asked with a
wrinkled nose.
“You
smell it, too?” I asked.
“This house is heinous,” Jax said. “It smells like old people.” He laughed and I had to join in. Jax did that to me. He could make me laugh even when I was ready
to scream at the world.
“I
don’t know how I’m going to sleep in here.
The smell is horrible, and I don’t even have my bed put together yet,” I
said. “I can’t believe Stephanie is
making us go to school tomorrow.”
“Come
on, I’ll help you.” Jax said. He does stuff like that. Jax is pretty decent for a little
brother. At least he doesn’t mind when I
use his nickname. Only our mother calls
him “Jackson,” his full name.
He
dove forward, caught himself with his hands and made a clean somersault before
landing on his feet in my room. I don’t
know how he manages to do things like that.
I would have impaled myself on the shards of broken glass or ended up on
my head.
We’d gotten most of the bed frame together,
but were missing a couple of pieces.
That’s how we ended up rummaging through piles of clothing, tangles of
computer cables and boxes of kitchen utensils in the front room. And that’s when I first realized that someone
else was in the house.
It
started with a feeling. Not an emotion or
a thought like: ‘oh my, I sense a
presence from the other side,’ or anything lame like that. It was like static electricity, a series of
tiny shocks that I first felt on my arms.
I dropped the plastic measuring cups I’d fished out of a box and stared
down at my arms. Each tiny hair stood on
end, and my fear rose at the sight. The
prickly sensations surged from my arms and climbed down my spine. Then, I felt
the electric buzz over my entire body. And,
I understood. The thought came to my
brain and in an instant it was knowledge, not simply an idea. I just knew. I mentioned my premonitions before, didn’t
I? Someone, aside from my mother and
brother, had entered the house. I
started to shiver. What was worse: I also knew that this someone was waiting for
me. I gulped.
The
electric feeling intensified until it was painful. I reached with a shaky hand for my brother and
grabbed his arm.
“Jax?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t
you feel that?” I said with an
embarrassing tremble in my voice.
“What,
your death grip? Geez, Harl, let go,
you’re cutting off my circulation,” Jax said. He didn’t even look at me. He wrenched his arm away and turned back to
the box in front of him.
“Sweet,
my favorite shirt!” he said, holding it up.
I read the words: “Celebrate the radness of me,” printed in
blood red letters on the black t-shirt.
From behind, I heard someone laugh.
It wasn’t Stephanie’s voice, and it certainly wasn’t mine.
I
whirled around. No one else was in the
room, but from the doorway of the kitchen an intense, silvery light spilled out
and glowed so strong that I had to squint.
Before
I could decide what to do, my mother lurched into to the front room carrying
the heavy old computer monitor.
“Time
to set up the computer. Help me out,
guys,” she said. She puffed and panted
and lugged the monitor toward the kitchen.
“Stop! There’s someone in there!” I shouted.
Stephanie
stopped so fast she stumbled and nearly dropped the monitor. At the same time,
Jax jumped to his feet.
“What
are you talking about, Harley?” My
mother’s earrings jangled when she turned her head toward the kitchen.
“Hello,”
she called out. “Anybody in there?”
The
silvery light still sparkled in the kitchen, but the laughter had stopped.
Stephanie
turned back to me and smiled in the way she does when she’s annoyed, with her lips
pressed into a thin line. I get that smile
a lot.
“Not
funny, Harley. It’s been a long day,
give me a break,” she said.
“Hey,
maybe the crack-heads are back! We can
call the cops,” Jax said. He seemed
excited at the prospect.
“If
anyone’s here, it’s probably the cable guy,” Mom said. “Our former tenants are long gone, thank
goodness.” She shuffled again toward the
kitchen.
“Mom,
no! Someone’s here!” I shouted.
Stephanie
ignored me, and my brother laughed.
“Lame-o, Harl. You can come up
with something better than that,” he said.
“I’m
serious! Don’t you see that light?” I shouted so loud my voice cracked.
“Come
on, Mom, if there’s an intruder, let’s call the cops! They’ll get here fast, cops are always
cruising around this neighborhood,” Jax said.
He bounced on his heels like a little kid and smiled at the prospect of
getting the law enforcement involved.
“I’m
not calling anyone,” Stephanie said. At
least, that’s what it sounded like she said.
I wasn’t sure because she spoke with her teeth clenched together, like
her jaw was wired shut. I was also
seriously distracted by the bizarre light shooting from the kitchen, and the
fact that I felt like I’d stepped on a live wire. My body was about to fry.
“I’m
going to Zen’s house, maybe he’ll let me use his phone,” Jax said. He bolted to the door.
“Jackson,
stay here! Don’t—”
The
door slammed shut.
My
mother glared at me. “Thanks a lot, Harley. Cut it out and please help me with this, okay?” She hefted the monitor higher and stumbled
into the kitchen. The silver light
swallowed her.
“Uh,
Mom?” I managed to say. My voice was only a hoarse whisper.
“Come
on, Harley, I could use some help here,” my mother called from the weirdly
glowing kitchen.
I
had to go in there. There wasn’t any
other choice. I picked up the first
thing I could reach and clutched it tight. I guess I thought I needed something to hold
on to. So, with an orange coffee cup gripped in my
hands, I started to walk, or really, shuffle forward on the damp carpet. I stopped right before the kitchen entryway
and felt my head spin. I’d forgotten to
breathe. I took a shaky breath, closed
my eyes and scooted forward a few final inches.
When I stepped onto the green
linoleum floor, the electric feeling was even stronger. I felt as if every frizzled hair on my head
had to be standing on end, so my Medusa waves would look like stiff needles. The bright silver light pierced my closed
eyelids. I opened my eyes and dropped
the cup.
A woman, or what seemed to be the form of a
woman, sat at the scuffed wooden table with a magazine open before her under
the yellow light of the lamp. She hummed
to herself as she looked at the pictures.
Her body shimmered, or wavered, almost like I was seeing her
underwater. She had that weird light all
around her, the silvery, sparkling glow I saw coming from the kitchen. I had been absolutely right. There was somebody inside my house. And that somebody was a ghost.
This
particular ghost seemed to have dark hair.
Long smudges of darkness flowed down her back and some of the dark smudges
hung along one side of her face.
Something about the clothing she wore seemed strange, but at first I
didn’t understand why. I was focused on
something else that caught and held my eye.
This shimmery ghost sat with her chin in her hand, and I could clearly
see a large silver ring with blue stones in the shape of a flower that nearly
covered half of her ring finger. The
ring freaked me out. Why could I see it
clearly? It sparkled, almost glowing
with its own light, standing out in sharp, vivid contrast to the rest of the
blurry ghost.
“Pick that up!” my mother said. “You’re lucky it didn’t break.” She didn’t look up at me but kept fooling
with the cables that connected the monitor to the computer tower. She was practically right next to the ghost, inches
away. She seemed totally oblivious to
the sparkling spirit-person next to her.
The ghost woman at the table raised her head
and looked at me. At least, I think she
looked at me, but I couldn’t be sure. Her
face was a blur, smeared like a child’s finger painting. Her features were unrecognizable. Then, she smiled. Or, I think she smiled. I opened my mouth to speak. I squeaked.
The
ghost looked back down at her magazine. At
that moment, I realized why her clothing had seemed strange to me. She wore overalls. Long dark hair, silver
turquoise ring, overalls. What? It didn’t compute.
“Harley, pick up that cup you dropped!” My mother, again.
“Uh,
Mom.” I gulped and tried to breathe. I could not believe my mother didn’t see the
ghost. She had to. “Who is that?” I asked. I dropped my eyes and pointed directly at the
ghost. Was it still rude to point, even
if the person you were pointing at was dead?
My hand and voice shook. Then I
looked back at the ghost and gasped.
The woman was gone. Her chair was
empty.
I
saw a flash of movement and light from the corner of my eye and turned just in
time to see the ghost woman walk out through the back door. Her bright silver light moved
with her, glinting off the square window in the the door as she passed. She didn’t float through the door, or glide
like you might think a ghost would; she opened the door and walked out like
those of us who are still alive. The
door closed behind her with a soft click.
I felt the cloud of frigid winter air that invaded the kitchen. A faint, silver light glowed for a brief
moment from the other side of the window in the kitchen door before it flared
out. The electric feeling in the room
was abruptly gone, as if a switch had been turned off.
“Who
is….where did that draft come from?” my mother said. She finally looked up from her computer. Then she walked over to the back door and
grabbed the handle. “Hey, this door was
left unlocked,” she said. She glanced back
in my direction and pushed in the tiny button.
“We all need to remember to keep the doors locked. Especially in this neighborhood.”
“Uh,
yeah,” I said. I didn’t believe it. Stephanie hadn’t seen the freaky light or the
creepy ghost woman. Only me.
“Come
on, pick up the cup you dropped,” Stephanie said. She turned back to her computer. “Jax should be home by now. I swear, you’ll both be the death of me,” she
muttered.
I
grabbed the cup from the floor and plopped it onto the table. The magazine still
lay open where the ghost had left it.
Fluttery from head to toe, I glanced at the picture. It was a photograph of an elderly man
standing by the doorway of a low adobe building. His copper skin glowed in the sunshine. His long graying hair was pulled into a pony
tail behind his head, and he wore a cowboy hat, a faded red Western-style
shirt, jeans and boots. The scent of
sagebrush floated into my nose for a second, but was gone as soon as I was
aware of it. I read the caption below
the picture, and learned that the man was Navajo. The immediate feeling that this was important
seized me. It was as if the ghost had
wanted me to see that picture.
“Harl, go get me the printer. It’s in the front room,” Stephanie said.
I
grabbed the printer from the floor of the front room, set it onto the kitchen
table next to my mother, blurted: “I
have to finish unpacking, Mom,” and ran to my room.
I
closed the dusty rooster curtains against the darkness and the possibility of
silvery ghosts outside, and then I dug through my box of books and found what I
needed. Whenever I have to think, I
write. I grabbed my journal and my
pen. Then, I turned back to the book
box. Underneath the top layer of books
was my stash box, carefully labeled as “school supplies.” Whenever I really have to think, I eat
chocolate.
With
a Milky Way sticking out of my mouth like a big chocolate cigar, I picked up my
pen. While I wrote, I gripped the pen
too tightly and my hand shook. It made my
handwriting look like someone else’s; like some alien force had taken over my
body.
Journal
Entry: January 11
I
saw a ghost in my kitchen! She was
wearing overalls. Overalls? And she had this silver ring I could see
clearly, even though the rest of her was blurry. She was sitting at the table and looking at a
magazine. I didn’t know ghosts liked to
read.
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