Apparition (17 page)

“Matthew?” I manage to gasp, shaking. “Who … who is that?”

“I don’t know his name. But he’s trouble.”

I’m nearly at the door now. “I’ve got to go, Matthew. I really hate leaving you alone in here.”

“Oh, I’m not alone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Then don’t go, Amelia. Please stay.”

“I’ll come back. I promise.”

I’ve got to get out of here. I turn to run the last few feet to the
door and there, standing just to the side, is a face I recognize from the photo at the Telford house: Paul.

“Morris?” he whispers.

I freeze for a moment, too shocked to respond.

He whispers again. “What happened to Morris?”

I can’t think. “W-what?”

“He looks like hell.”

I grab hold of the door and lunge through. With feet planted firmly on the outside, I risk one last look back, searching for Matthew. He’s just a shadow against the wall now. High above him, I can still see the body hanging from the rafters, neck broken. Just then, the head, lying unnaturally on the shoulder, snaps up and faces me. The body jerks and now the eyes are open wide, the mouth frothing and furious, cursing at me. It sounds like he’s saying, “Get out!”

I dive for my bike, scramble to get my balance on the seat, then start pedalling furiously down the driveway, gravel flying. In no time I’m on 12th Line, gasping for air, my chest in spasms, adrenalin driving my legs as I pump up and over the hill.

Once I’m within sight of my house, I slow right down. I’m exhausted and hyperventilating. I have cramps in my legs and my side. My heart is about to burst out of my chest. I get off the bike and walk rubber-legged alongside it. I need to calm down. That was the most gruesome thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

The first thing I do when I get into the house is figure out where Joyce is. I’m completely freaked out, which I’ve seriously got to hide from her. Fortunately, she’s still out back. I check that Ethan’s still deep into his video game. Then I run to the kitchen phone, where I can keep an eye on Joyce through the back window.

I’ve got the Dysons’ home number on a piece of paper in my wallet, and I pull it out and dial. The phone rings. Will Kip answer?
I haven’t thought about that. But on the third ring, it’s his father who says hello.

“Morris! It’s Amelia.” I’m still breathless. “I know you didn’t want me to, but I went over to the barn this morning. By myself.”

“I wish you hadn’t, Amelia.” His irritation takes me by surprise. “I’m serious. What happened? Can you talk?”

“Not for long. Joyce is out back.” I take a deep breath. “I had a long talk with Matthew, and … well, I saw Paul. I recognized him right away.”

“My God!”

“Uh, yeah. It was strange. He asked me what happened to you.”

“What happened to
me
?”

“Yes. He … he said you looked like hell.”

“Tell him thirty bloody years is what happened to me. Jeez! Anything else?”

“Uh, that’s all from him, though I only saw him at the last second, on my way out.” The vision of the boy hanging from the rafters flashes before my eyes. “Let’s just say I was in a hurry.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re leaving something out?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it on the phone. Could the three of us get together soon?”

“Well, Kip’s not here. He’s in Toronto. He took the bus down early this morning. He’s taking a few days off work, he said. Some downtime. But you and I could meet up. I can fill him in later.”

“Okay, sure,” I say. I’m disappointed but I try not to sound it. “I could meet you after school on Monday.” I guess I’m not surprised that Kip went down to the city after all. I mean, why wouldn’t he? Especially after what happened when we were last together.

“Monday’s good. I’ll be working in the library. Upstairs in the reference section. Why don’t we meet there? And in the meantime,
Amelia—stay out of the barn.
Please?
I’m prepared to arrange to get it taken down for the Telfords if I have to, just to keep you out of it. It’s not safe.”

“Believe me, I’ve had enough!” I say, and we hang up.

I feel better having talked to Morris. He’s the only one I really can talk to. But now what am I going to do?

Matthew, you’re trapped like a prisoner in that horrible place. How am I supposed to save you from that?

I waste nearly an hour getting caught up with Morgan on Facebook. Someone’s posted some funny pictures of Jack and his friends in his hospital room. Morgan and I discuss which essay question we’re going to pick for our English assignment. We have to analyze one of three soliloquies from Shakespeare’s
Hamlet
—the “To be or not to be” speech, or one by Hamlet’s father’s ghost, or one by Polonius. I haven’t decided yet. Then Morgan asks me about Kip. I was afraid of that.

“OMG! SOOO QT!” she writes. Then she tells me Brittany is SOOO jealous and I’d better keep an eye on him. I have to tell her that it’s not serious between us, we’re just friends.

With benefits, I hope
.

No
, I write back.
Not likely
, I add.

Maybe the best way to get over losing Matthew. Take advantage of Kip. Not in a bad way. Just have some fun. Just saying
.

I answer that I don’t think I could do something like that.

Sucks to be you, then
. And she adds a smiley face.

When it’s time for bed I turn out the light, but I sit back up in the pitch-dark and decide that tonight I’ll leave my desk lamp on. I lie down and consider what Morgan said. I think about the look on Kip’s face just before he kissed me. His smile was so gentle. Could he have feelings for me? But no. He’s just doing what he does best.

I
’m on my way to the public library, deep in thought. I’ve been doing some thinking lately about why I see ghosts when most other people don’t. I’ve done Internet searches on ghosts in my spare time, and on people who see them. Mediums, that is. Or clairvoyants. I’ve tried to uncover as much as I can, and you know what I’ve been able to find? Almost nothing. Why don’t scientists research this stuff more? I don’t get it. It’s crazy how ghosts are such a big part of our lives—if you really think about it, people mention them all the time—but no one seems to care whether they’re real or not. Unless they happen to see one for themselves.

I find Morris at a corner table on the second floor, in the reference section. He has his laptop computer and a file of newspaper clippings spread out in front of him. As I approach the table, he looks up and starts shoving papers and clippings back into the folder and clearing up part of the table, offering me a seat beside him. He takes a quick look around to make sure there are no eavesdroppers, then gestures with his thumb to the file he’s been working on.

He says it’s for a column about another historic building facing demolition. A grand old three-storey Empire Loyalist mansion. It’s been run as a restaurant, changing owners about three times in the past ten years, and no one has been able to make it work. But back in the late
1850
s it was a last stop in the Underground Railroad—the secret route to freedom for slaves escaping from the cotton plantations in the Deep South. Apparently it was also a tavern and brothel for sailors, back when the town was a thriving port for ships on the Great Lakes.

Morris sighs and says, “This beautiful old house is haunted. She’s just a child. Sometimes she’s in the garden, sometimes one of the upstairs rooms. There are so many recorded sightings that the last few times it’s been on the market, the real estate listings have had to include a clause acknowledging reported paranormal activity. Some owner back in the
1980
s won a lawsuit against a vendor for nondisclosure. No one wants to live in a house with ghosts, no matter how much they don’t believe in them.”

We talk about the whole idea of living people being possessed by ghosts, the way Matthew must have been when he was driving the truck. Morris says it seems as if the ghost possesses the body, memory and emotions, but not the whole identity. Which is why both Matthew and Jack still recognized me even though they were possessed. It seems they still remembered something about their real lives. I ask whether I could have snapped them out of it if I’d tried to, if I’d tried harder. Morris says he doesn’t know. I think about how I punched Kip, and feel foolish all over again.

“Depends on the intensity of the ghost’s obsession, I suppose. It seems that a ghost is a person who hangs around after his death rather than moving on to another dimension, because he’s obsessed with a memory he’s carried over. He re-experiences the emotion of it, whether it’s a place or an event or a person. It’s like a powerful
flashback. Like post-traumatic stress disorder. In some ways, I think that’s what ghosts suffer from.”

“Well, for starters, death is pretty traumatic,” I point out.

“But dying itself doesn’t seem to do it. Because not everyone who dies becomes a ghost. Something goes wrong, beyond just the dying part. Or at least that’s the theory.”

I tell Morris about my trip to the barn on Sunday. About how I saw Matthew and we talked for quite a while. I’ve already told him about seeing Paul Telford, but I struggle with how to describe the rest.

“I saw someone else too,” I finally admit. It’s the real reason I had to see him today.

“Really? The red-haired guy? The McCleary boy?”

“No. No one red-haired.”

“Oh? Who did you see?”

“It was more like a ‘what.’ ” I take a deep breath to steady myself before carrying on. “A dead body. Hanging from the rafters.”

Morris’s eyes narrow and his jaw tightens. “I was afraid of that,” he says in a low voice. “Now you understand why I didn’t want you to go back in there.” He swears to himself, elbows on the table, head in his hands.

“I admit it was scary, but as soon as I saw him, I backed the hell out of the barn. I didn’t feel like I was in any danger.” I’m kind of lying. That’s not how it felt at the time.

“Jesus.”

“Okay … there was one more thing: the last thing I saw as I left the barn. I took one look back behind me, and as I did, the body—which looked totally dead, by the way—kind of jerked to life and the guy moved his head to face me, broken neck and all. He opened his eyes and looked right at me. He seemed seriously angry, and he said something—I think it was to get out.”

We sit in silence for a few moments. Finally Morris shakes his head and mutters, “Jesus Christ.” Then he looks me in the eye, pointing a finger at me, and says sternly, “No. More. Barn. Visits.”

“You won’t believe this! He’s been eavesdropping when we thought he was sleeping!” That’s how Jack greets me when I drop in on him after school. He’s talking about the old guy in the next bed.

“He asked me this afternoon which place I meant when I talked about the Telfords’ farm. He asked if I meant the farm on 12th Line! Said he knew the family that lived there when he was a teenager. I told him you were interested in the history of the property, so he said for me to wake him next time you came over. He said the place has a
curse
.”

I raise my eyebrows and look over my shoulder at the old guy. He’s sleeping.

“What’s wrong with him?” I whisper.

“He’s got a broken hip. But I think he’s got pneumonia or something too.” Jack asks if this is a good time to wake him up. I nod eagerly.

“Mr. Clinton? Excuse me, Mr. Clinton.”

The old man stirs and opens his eyes. He coughs a little and clears his throat, then smiles at us and nods. We smile back at him.

Jack says, “Mr. Clinton, this is my sister, Amelia. I told her that you overheard us talking about the Telfords’ farm on 12th Line, and that you know a bit about its history.”

Mr. Clinton smiles and nods again, for rather a long time, until I prompt him, asking how he knows that particular farm. It’s obvious that talking is an effort for him. He takes his time, pausing every few words.

“My grandparents … lived across the road. The war years.” He stops to catch his breath. “They were friendly … with the McGraths. Mr. McGrath, it was his … his parents built the farm.”

“What a coincidence!” I say. I look at his bleary eyes and quivering lips, wondering how much longer he’s got. And whether I’d see his ghost leaving his body if he died right now. A morbid thought, I know.

“I overheard you young kids … a few times, talking about the … accident in the barn. About strange things going on.” He goes on to tell us how he heard rumours about that farm when he was a young man. About a terrible tragedy that people talked about for years. “A sad, sad story.”

He sputters, breathing with great effort, his mouth open as if his tongue is too large. I have a flashback of my mother’s head on the pillow, her bony face, her eyes closed, her breath barely there. I hate that memory more than anything. Then Mr. Clinton clears his throat and starts up again.

“His folks, they moved away … not long after that. Couldn’t stay.”

His
folks? Whose folks? The old man clears his throat and starts coughing again. Jack and I exchange worried glances. I’m not sure if we should politely wait it out or offer him some kind of help. Maybe he’s not coughing at all. Maybe he’s choking. I’d better do something.

“Can I get you some water, Mr. Clinton?”

He can’t seem to answer. I go to the door and lean out into the hall, looking left and right for a nurse. He’s still coughing. I dash down the hall to the nursing station.

Moments later, Jack and I watch in alarm as a nurse fusses over Mr. Clinton, putting a pill under his tongue and giving him oxygen. “You’ve been talking too much again,” she teases him. Behind the oxygen mask, his eyes are closing. He’s falling asleep. Damn!

But Jack and I visit for a while longer, and just as I’m leaving, Mr. Clinton, his eyes still closed, raises his arm from the elbow, and his hand opens as if to touch something. I come closer.

“I hope you’re feeling better soon,” I say. Not likely, I’m thinking. I see his lips move, his fingers beckoning me to come closer, and when I do, he speaks in a raspy whisper.