The Ghost Files (6 page)

“So a ghost told you Sally was shot?”

“No,” I sigh. “Sally did.”

He frowns.  “Are you telling me that Sally’s ghost told you she was shot?”

“You don’t believe me.” I slouch as best I can in the bed and yank the blankets up, pouting. I should have known better than to trust him, but those eyes of his tricked me.

“I think
you
believe it,” he sighs.

“But you don’t.”

“Look, Mattie…”

“No,” I cut him off. “I shouldn’t have told you. Will you leave now?” I sniff. Am I really crying? I haven’t cried since I was nine when my foster dad flushed Mr. Goldfish down the toilet because I back-talked him.

There was a knock at the door and Jake pokes his head in. He gives Officer Dan a once over and then frowns.

“Hey,” he says. “I dropped by to check on you this morning after you freaked out last night, but Mr. Olson said you were in the hospital. Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I just really, really needed to get home. I didn’t mean to make you miss the party.”

“I don’t care about the party, Matts.” Then Jake gives me that knee-melty smile. “If you were sick you should have said something and I would’ve brought you home sooner.”

I smile back at him. He is so unlike anyone I’ve ever dated – like he seems to really care about me. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask me to do things I’m not comfortable with and is genuinely nice. Not the guy I typically attract.

He holds up a bag… ohmygosh… do I smell something good? “I thought you might want something to eat besides hospital food. I grabbed you a cinnamon roll on the way in. I had my appendix out last year in this place. I remember that the food was bland and tasted like sandpaper.”

I give Officer Dan a meaningful glare that says: See,
Jake
brings me food. Evil Dan on the other hand, brought food to eat in front of me and never offered to share, the torturer. The smell wafting from the bag Jake sets on my bedside table is making me drool.

“I’m Jake Owens,” Jake tells Dan. “You are?”

“I’m Officer Dan Richards,” Dan replied. “One of Mattie’s foster sisters disappeared last night and I’m doing a follow up interview with her.”

“Oh.” Jake looks at me uncertainly.

“Officer Dan was just leaving,” I say pointedly. I’m still smarting from him not believing me.

“Mattie,” Officer Dan looks directly into my eyes. “It’s not that I don’t want to believe you, it’s just that, well…”

I give him the smile I’m known for, the one that says ‘Back the hell off and stay the hell away from me.’ “Good-bye, Officer Dan.”

“If you had some proof, Mattie, it would be different…”

Proof that I can see ghosts? I want to laugh out loud. How can I give him proof when only I can see them? “Well, fudgepops…”

“Fudgepops?” Both Jake and Officer Dan ask in unison and I turn scarlet. Why did I say that out loud? I try not to cuss. It’s one of the things I picked up in the one-and-only church I’ve been to in my life. The Sunday school teacher pounded it into our head and I guess it just stuck. Fudgepops is my substitute for a curse word. Childish, I know and I’m not sure how it became the substitute word, but there it is.

“Never mind that,” I snap at them, embarrassed. I think I know how to give Officer Dan his proof. Mary. The ghost who’d been here before. He could check her out and see I was telling the truth. “My friend Mary was on her way to see her boyfriend Jimmy. She took her bike to his house, but it rained and she had an accident. Talk to her if you want proof.”

I hope Officer Dan is smart enough to figure out what I’m trying to tell him. No way am I talking about ghosts in front of Jake. Whoa… now, look how Dan reacted. Uh-uh, not gonna happen in this lifetime.

“Is Mary a g–”

“Good friend! Yes!” I nearly shout, cutting him off before he can say the word. Geez, you’d think he’d know not to blurt stuff like that. I mean seriously, he’s a cop!

Officer Dan regards me silently for a minute, then understanding dawns on his face and he nods. “I’ll do that, Mattie. Jake, nice to meet you. Don’t keep her too long. She’s tired.”

“Jake?” I grouch. “
You’re
the one who’s been harassing me for the last hour, Officer Dan.”

“Get some rest, Mattie.” Dan stands and gives Jake a nod before leaving.

“Sounds like you’ve had quite a night,” Jake slides into the chair Officer Dan just vacated.

“Yeah,” I nod and yawn. I
am
tired, but glad Jake came by. I was worried last night he’d dump me after my crazy behavior.

“What happened?”

“Sally turned up missing and I demanded they call the cops.” Okay, so I fudge the truth just a little. I don’t need Jake thinking I’m crazy, too. “I got a really nasty migraine and passed out. Mrs. Olson freaked and brought me to the hospital.”

“You’re okay, though, right?”

“I guess,” I say. “They can’t figure out why my head exploded in pain and I blacked out.” I’d sure like to know that answer myself. How did the ghost make me bleed? Scares the bejeezus out of me just thinking about it.

My yawn makes Jake laugh. “Get some sleep, Matts. I’ll come by later.” He stands and gives me a quick kiss.

Once Jake’s gone, I settle back and hope that Officer Dan can figure out what I tried to tell him. If he doesn’t believe me, then I’m stuck dealing with ghosts and trying to figure it out on my own. I
so
don’t want to do that.

But what else can I do?

Chapter Eight

Three days after my chat with Officer Dan, the hospital staff still had no idea what caused my massive brain blow-out. So, they let out with strict instructions I was to come straight back if I had any more symptoms. As if! I hate, hate, hate, hospitals! Though to be fair, I’d only seen one real ghost while I was there this time. I still don’t know why they all stayed away, but I
did
say a prayer of thanks for the reprieve. My old Sunday school teacher used to say that God only gives us what we can bear, and there was no way I could bear another ghost after Mirror Boy. Little miracles I’ll take any day of the week.

It’s raining. It fits my mood. Mrs. Olson is singing along to Keith Urban on the radio. Her voice isn’t half bad, but I can’t really concentrate on it. No one will tell me anything about Sally, except that her case is being “investigated.” Bah. I even broke down and tried to call Officer Dan. Me, actually call the cops for once? Well, yeah, who knew? I got his voicemail at the police station both times. I stopped calling after the third try. I guess he can’t bring himself to believe me. I know I sounded crazy, but I had hoped Officer Dan would come around. Oh, well. I’ll figure it out on my own. I always do. I’ve never needed anyone before and I don’t need them now. I’m a tough, resourceful cookie.

Well, tough is maybe a stretch, especially at
this
particular moment. We have just pulled into the driveway. All I can think about is Mirror Boy. He can hurt me. My heartbeat accelerates and my breath swooshes out of my lungs. Calm down, I tell myself forcefully.
Gotta hold it together or Mrs. Olson will turn around and take you right back to the flippin’ hospital.

That hospital stuff I can’t have. I need to move freely to investigate. Mirror Boy will just to have to deal if I see him again. I
will
find Sally and if that means finding Mirror Boy and disrupting his little reign of terror, so be it. I refuse to be afraid of a stinking ghost. No way am I gonna get bullied by anyone or anything –
especially
by ghosts.

“Mattie, you okay?”

Mrs. Olson is eyeballing me with concern. I haven’t moved to get out of the car. “All good, Mrs. O,” I smile weakly at her. “Just tired.” Taking a deep breath, I open the door and force myself out. I am not afraid, I chant over and over.

The other kids are still at school, so the house is pretty empty. Mrs. O had told me earlier we had a new foster kid in the house, but I’m betting he’s at school too. She sends me upstairs with the promise to bring me a sandwich and a glass of milk. The doctors said no caffeine for a while, so my favorite drink in the world, Coke, is off limits. At least until I can escape and get to a gas station. I need it like an addict needs crack.

My room is exactly as I left it, the bed turned down and my clothes thrown into a corner. A simple white dresser and mirror, desk, and a twin bed covered in my worn out quilt decorate the room. My desk, made of black metal, is the only thing of color in the whole stark-white space, really. Mr. Olson gave it to me when I’d asked if I could use it for a desk. It’s a work table more than a desk. The floor is a dingy gray carpet; nothing special, but the place is clean, to include bare walls. After all, I never stay anywhere too long. There’s no point in cluttering them up with posters of bands and the latest teen hotties. I’d only have to pack them again in a few weeks anyway.

My eyes travel to the slightly dark spot on the carpet. They’re blood stains – mine. No matter how much she cleans, I don’t think Mrs. O will get them out. Not that they are all that obvious; it’s just a dark spot on the carpet. Only
I
know what the spot is, but doubt anyone else would. Unfortunately, that means my room doesn’t feel like the safe place it once did, and that’s just not fair. I need my safe haven back. There’s only one way to get it back and that’s to figure out where Sally is. That means facing my gift, my curse. I can’t run from it anymore.

First order of business, figure out just what Mirror Boy did to me. I turn on my laptop and wait for it to boot up, trying to stop myself from looking at the carpet. Stop that. It’s a reminder of my terror and I’ve
got
to get past it, but I can’t stop my heart from racing. Flippin’ ghosts! Maybe I will put a rug or something over it. If I can’t see it, maybe I won’t obsess. Right.

My laptop sings to me when the logon screen pops up. Last time I turned on my baby, Mirror Boy showed up. His face keeps flashing in front of my eyes so I close them and slowly count to one hundred. It’s a technique I learned in therapy – and the only valuable thing I got out of all those sessions. It actually works to calm me down.

Mrs. O comes in and sets my food on the desk next to my laptop. She tells me to come get her if I feel at all ill and then leaves me to my own devices. My mouth waters at the sight of the food. Ham, cheese, and BACON. It’s that pre-cooked stuff, but hey, bacon in any shape or form makes everything taste better. Just ask anyone on Top Chef. I can eat my weight in bacon.

I Google “can ghosts hurt people?” and get back over one thousand hits. Ouch, too many to sort through. Let’s try it a different way. I type “can ghosts cause physical pain in people?” and see several potentially useful sites on the first page that comes up.

As I eat my heavenly sandwich, I start reading. Some are just hogwash, drivel not even worth the amount of cyberspace used to house them. One site
does
catch my attention. It’s the site of the famous ghost hunter, Dr. Lawrence Olivet. He has his own TV show and he also does an online podcast as well. His site houses a wealth of information about anything you can ever want to know about ghosts. He also lists several other sites to check out for additional information. I bookmark his page and settle in for a long read.

Uh-huh. So ghosts can only hurt you if they are strong enough. Well, okay. The little buggers gain strength from feeding off the energy of the living? Hmm. They drain your energy much like a vampire does blood to survive – Oh, that is just wrong on
so
many levels. It causes the people they attach themselves to become tired and lethargic, or if they are feeding from an entire household, the symptoms aren’t as obvious, but the household can become argumentative and snippy with each other. This feeds the ghost as well, especially one that has a cause to be angry, like one who was murdered maybe? Yeah, Mirror Boy is one angry little ghostie. So… definitely not Casper the Friendly Ghost then.

This doc might have something. I
really
need to chat with Dr. Olivet, so I do what I do best – I lie. The email says that I’m an aspiring young adult author who wants to get her facts straight about ghosts and can he offer some technical advice? Maybe he’ll get back to me and maybe he won’t. But then again… I
could
have just told him I thought I’d seen a ghost, but I’m betting he gets those emails all the time. Oh, well. Probably he wouldn’t get back to me for a good long while, if ever. Fudging the truth, one professional to another, might get me faster results.

My back aches and the neck is stiff from sitting hunched over the computer for so long. I need to get out of this room for a while anyway. It’s a bit creepy now. Maybe I’ll scour Sally’s room for clues. Doubt that I’ll find anything, but who knows? It’s worth a shot. The police were pretty much useless when it came to that, so hopefully, I can find something.
Or
maybe I’ll go for a walk. There’s a park just down the street.

I push up and stretch. The hospital stay didn’t help much; my muscles are sore. Yes, a good walk will do me good, I decide. Grabbing my sketchpad and a charcoal pencil, I turn around and come face to face with a bloody mess.

Oh, no. I scramble back, my legs hitting the bed and I fall backward, barely containing my screams. “Mary?”

Dear God, it is. Her eyes are still blindfolded, but what I can see of her face tells me a story I don’t want to read. Her face is swollen, her lip busted in several places. I can see the shallow cuts of a knife all over her arms and chest. Her shirt has been torn so that whoever did this had access to the soft flesh underneath. They’ve carved her up. Blood drips down her arms and falls onto the carpet. Bile rises in my throat at the sight. Her hands hang limply at her sides, but I can see the swollen fingers, fingers that are bent at odd angles. Someone has broken them, not just one or two, but all of them on both hands. How is this possible? She’s dead, so how is she showing up with new wounds that weren’t there before?