Ghost Town (3 page)

“Where's my bedroom?” I asked Dad. I wanted to get away from the man.

“It's up to you.” Dad chuckled. “Can you believe we have four bedrooms on this floor and two more on the third floor? I figure we'll put our kitchen table, sofa, and TV in this room. We share the kitchen downstairs, but we can always bring our meals upstairs and eat here.”

Hallways branched off both the right and left side of the main sitting room. I headed down the right one. “Pick any room you want,” Dad said, following me. “I think you'll like this one best.” He twisted a glass doorknob, revealing a large room with high ceilings and pale pink walls. A door opened to a lattice-trimmed balcony with partial views of the gray-blue waters of the bay.

I shivered, although it was warm. There was no way I could ever sleep here. I stared at the young woman in the rocking chair in the corner. Her body shook with sadness, and she buried her face in her delicate hands. Her anguish filled my body, causing me to gulp back tears.

“Sara?” My dad peered at me. “Are you okay?”

I backed out of the Room of Sadness, closing the
door on the woman's grief. “It—it's really dusty in there,” I explained, wiping my eyes. “I don't like that room. What about the others?”

“You know that we'll clean them, right? Wash away all the grime and dust.” He watched me, trying to gauge my mood.

“I know,” I said. I tried to smile. I didn't want to worry him.

He swung open the door of a hexagonal bedroom with tall windows and pale blue walls. I could make out the outline of a figure in a sailor's cap by the window. I shook my head. This room was occupied too.

Dad seemed surprised. “You're a picky shopper, I see,” he teased. We headed back through the sitting room, and down the other hall.

The bedroom at the end was really cool—octagonal with many windows, all with lace curtains. Although no one appeared, I instantly felt my stomach lurch as if riding a roller coaster. Someone—or someone's energy—lurked in this room. There were more spirits roaming this one house, I realized, than I'd encountered all last year.

“Next,” I said, turning to open the other door.

“That one's not really big enough—” my dad started.

The room was much smaller than the others. The walls were painted drab beige and a single, narrow window overlooked the street.

“I was planning to use this one for storage—” he began again.

“I like it,” I interrupted. “May I have it?”

“Seriously?”

I nodded. It was empty. Totally empty. And that made it perfect. I've been an only child for twelve years. Sharing a room is not my thing—especially when the other person is dead.

Dad shrugged. “All yours, then, kiddo. The moving van with our stuff should arrive this afternoon.”

After we peeked at the two large rooms with turreted windows on the third floor, we heard faint calls for my dad from far below.

Lady Azura had placed a pitcher of iced tea and a plate of cheese and crackers on a rusted wrought-iron table out back. The grass in the narrow yard was overrun by weeds. I slid onto a chair, edging myself away from Lady Azura. Her steely gaze made me jittery.

“I think I may tackle this lawn first,” my dad commented as we passed around the crackers.

“The boy who was helping with the yard hasn't been around in a long while.” She shook her head in dismay, obviously annoyed at the boy. “There used to be such pretty petunias out here once.”

Dad took a swig of his tea. “Give me some time. I'll get things back to the way they used to be.”

He spoke in a light tone, but Lady Azura's brown eyes clouded. “They will never be the same,” she replied in a low voice.

“No, they won't.” Dad's voice suddenly sounded distant. Sad.

“You can't always control life,” she replied, her eyes now searching my father's.

“But we all control our own decisions.” My dad met her gaze and held it for a moment. “Sometimes we don't make the
right
ones.”

“Some decisions aren't ours to make,” she responded softly, looking away.

What's going on?
It was as if I'd missed the beginning of the movie. “Huh?” I said.

Dad shook his head, as if suddenly surprised to see
me. “I'm going to help Lady Azura fix up the house,” he explained. “It's part of our agreement for living here. I'll use our car to buy groceries, and I'll repair things on the weekends and after work.”

“Real estate market is getting hot down here. It'll soon be time to sell the house and cash in.” Lady Azura added as she waved a piece of cheese. “But no one wants to pay big money for a dump. And I want big money!”

Dad's going to be working day and night, I realized, if she thinks this decrepit house is going to make her rich!

I nibbled a cracker and thought about what Dad had said. I knew he'd lost his job back home, but he got another one. That's why we were here, right? Did we have money problems? I wondered. Is that why we were living with this wacky woman—so Dad could save money on rent?

Back in California I'd gone to school with a girl whose mom and dad both lost their jobs and couldn't find new ones. Her family ended up moving in with her aunt and uncle. I wasn't friendly with the girl, but I used to hear her complain about it to her friends during homeroom. She had to share a bedroom with
her cousin, and apparently her cousin talked in her sleep. I wondered if my dad had some sort of money problems like that girl's family did.

I felt Lady Azura's stare and shook myself out of my thoughts. She was definitely looking at my hands. Was she trying to read my palms or something? I squeezed my fingers into fists.

She grinned, like a cat finally discovering where the mouse lived. “Pretty ring,” she said. Her gnarled finger pointed at the braided silver ring I always wore.

“Thanks.” I bit my lip. Even if she wasn't trying to read my palm, I decided to avoid her when Dad wasn't around. The way she stared at me—as if she knew me—freaked me out.

“We'll start tomorrow,” Lady Azura said to me.

“Excuse me?”

“Oops. I haven't filled Sara in yet.” Dad shrugged apologetically. He turned to me. “You'll be helping out Lady Azura too.”

“Me?”

“Nick's leaving tomorrow,” Lady Azura said, pursing her red lips in annoyance. “All people leave eventually.” She stared into the distance. “Not all, maybe.”

Why is she speaking in riddles?
I wondered. I'm usually not this confused. “Who's Nick?”

“Nick used to help in the afternoons. He checked in on her. He ran errands, that kind of thing,” my dad explained. “But he's going away to college soon.
So you're taking over. After school, you'll help Lady Azura. There's a store around the corner where you can buy her little things she may need.” Dad nodded encouragingly.

“But—”

“There's a bike in the shed out back,” he continued before I could protest. “You can use it to get around. The town's not that big.”

“We'll have nice times together,” Lady Azura said. It sounded more like a command, though, than a comment. I had just vowed to avoid her, and now it looked as if I'd be spending every afternoon with her!

After we cleared the glasses, Dad went to unpack the car. I started back up the stairs to our rooms and stopped. Suddenly, it was all too much.

The spirits upstairs.

Lady Azura downstairs.

I had to get out.

I told Dad I was going exploring. I grabbed my cell phone and my camera from the car and pulled the red bike from the shed. The bike was a little big for me. It seemed fairly new, though. I wondered if she'd bought it for Nick.

I wobbled a bit at first, but in moments I was pedaling full speed down the driveway.

And that's when I almost hit him.

“Whoa!” A guy in a gray T-shirt leaped out of my way.

I braked quickly. “S-sorry,” I stuttered.

“Where you racing to?” he asked. His long brown hair fell over one eye. He was cute and probably about seventeen or eighteen.

I didn't answer. I'd never spoken to a cute older boy before. I didn't know what to say. Plus, I didn't know where I was going.

“Just moved in, huh?”

I nodded and examined my sneakers again. I wasn't good in new situations.

“Okay . . . well, have fun.” He headed toward the front porch, unconcerned about the mute twelve-year-old who almost plowed him down.

Then I realized that must be Nick.

I cringed and pedaled furiously down Seagate Drive. The kids two houses down were still playing in their front yard. The girl I'd seen earlier now wore enormous, oversize sunglasses. Her long, wavy dark
hair reached all the way down her back. She was pitching a red kickball to two younger boys. She spotted me mid-pitch. I saw her raise her hand—to wave, to call me over—I don't know. I didn't slow down. The girl looked really nice, but I just couldn't meet any more new people right now.

At the end of my new street, I turned left onto Ocean Grove Road. The houses were smaller and boxier here. The rectangular yards had yellow gravel instead of grass. One yard had an
END-OF-SEASON RENTAL
sign. The August sun made the pastel houses look as if they belonged in an ice-cream store.

On the corner, I spotted a green-and-white-striped awning and the sign,
ELBER'S CONVENIENCE STORE
. Two girls in bikini tops and cutoff shorts pushed open the door, blue Slushies in their hands.

I turned onto Beach Drive, which seemed to be the main street. I biked past a sandwich shop, ice-cream parlor, bagel store, and three places selling Jersey Shore T-shirts, key chains, and plastic beach shovels and pails. Several gift stores and seafood restaurants were tucked between the tourist shops. I wove around families lugging coolers, beach chairs, and sandy toddlers.

Beach Drive, I realized, ran parallel to the beach. A couple of blocks down, I turned right and biked under a huge arched sign proclaiming:
STELLAMAR BOARDWALK
.

The boardwalk buzzed with elderly people in floppy hats, kids on bikes, and families. Food stands with colorful signs boasting the best pizza, the best Philly cheesesteak, the best fried clams, and the best soft custard lined the weathered-gray planks. The aroma of sausage and peppers mingled with the salty ocean air. Vendors hawked T-shirts and encouraged visitors to play Skee-Ball at the arcade. Over the metal railing, the steely gray Atlantic Ocean stretched to the horizon. Below the boardwalk, the crowded beach was dotted with lifeguard stands and colorful towels. Farther down, a small red-and-white lighthouse rose from a rocky jetty.

“Hermit crab races!” a man by a booth called to me. “Buy a crab and join the race!” He held up a small hermit crab hiding inside a neon-pink shell.

I shook my head and pedaled on.

A pier jutted off the boardwalk forming a
T
. I parked my bike in a nearby rack and began to walk. Pulling my digital camera from my shorts pocket, I
surveyed the activity through the lens. The small pier held more food stands, plus games of chance, several rides, and a Ferris wheel.

I snapped a panoramic photo of a row of colorful stuffed monkeys at the softball-toss booth, then a close-up shot of pink crystallized sugar at the cotton-candy stand. I had gotten really into photography this year, but I only took photos of objects. Never people.

I sat on a bench and felt a trickle of sweat glide down my neck. Pulling an elastic from my wrist, I gathered my hair into a high ponytail. I wasn't used to the East Coast stickiness. The air thickened around me. I felt heaviness on all sides. I couldn't see them, but I could sense them. This was much more than humidity.

The dead were everywhere in this old town.

I forced myself to focus on something else. I snapped several shots of ice cream melting in a paper bowl alongside a garbage can.

“Are you really taking pictures of garbage?” someone suddenly asked from behind me.

I whirled around, startled.

A boy a few years older watched me from the
ticket stand of a haunted house. My eyes widened. I hadn't realized that I was sitting directly in front of a haunted house. I hate haunted houses. For obvious reasons.

“The garbage?” the boy said again. He wore a black baseball cap that had
MIDNIGHT MANOR—YOUR SCREAM AT THE BEACH
embroidered in green. “What are you going to do with those photos?”

“I make collages,” I said softly.

“Collages? Really?”

I hesitated. I wasn't big on talking to people I didn't know. Remember what I said before about being quiet but not shy? Well, maybe I'm a little shy sometimes. He looked nice enough—brown curly hair, greenish eyes, very tan—but still . . .

He reached under the rickety stand and pulled out a serious-looking camera complete with a zoom lens. Way more advanced than my pocket-size digital. “I take photographs too,” he explained. “So the garbage photo . . . what are you going to do with it?” He sounded genuinely interested, if a bit amused.

“I'll probably go into it on Photoshop on my computer. Change the color of the ice cream. Maybe
make it rainbow-striped to contrast with the sun-bleached planks of the boardwalk.” The words tumbled out as I explained. I loved manipulating images. Changing reality.

“That's kind of a cheat, don't you think?” he asked. “I don't believe in doctoring photos. I show things the way they are. I photograph nature. Fish, shells, the dunes, seagulls—”

Two young boys pulled their dad to the stand to buy tickets, abruptly ending his rant.

I wanted to tell him I
didn't
think I was cheating. It was art. Or, at least, I hoped it was.

My mom had been an artist—and a photographer.

I have photos she took—amazing images where she played with the lighting to create powerful moods. My favorite photo of hers is of a little porcelain angel figurine. It's so simple, but so beautiful. It hung over my bed in our old house. I was going to hang it here, too, in my new bedroom.