Authors: John Searles

Help for the Haunted (46 page)

BOOK: Help for the Haunted

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“My uncle took me to a doctor,” I said. “Turns out the
shhhh
I heard all this time is caused by tinnitus brought on by the gunshot that night in the church. The doctor said it will come and go for a long time, since there's no cure.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. It seems to be getting quieter every day actually. I get the feeling that, pretty soon, I won't hear it at all.”

“That's happy news. And your sister? Have you heard anything?”

“No word,” I told him, thinking of that globe spinning and spinning, all those faraway places. “But someday, a long time from now, I bet I'll hear from her.”

“Well, it is important to stay hopeful,” Boshoff told me.

With that, the bell rang. The sound broke some spell between us as the halls filled with the roar of students eager to leave this part of their lives behind and start the next. I supposed I was one of those students now too. “I should go,” I said. “While I can still escape the stampede.”

“Okay, Sylvie. Thank you again for thinking of me.”

“Thank you,” I told him.

When I stepped into the hallway, I turned in the direction of the crowd, which did not part the way it used to do, but rather, carried me along until I was moving out the front doors into the daylight once more. When I climbed into the Jeep, my uncle was waiting for me. He had rolled down his sleeves so I could see only a hint of his tattoos, not that I minded them. “All set?” he asked.

“All set.”

We managed to beat the buses and pull onto the main road ahead of the traffic. Howie asked if I wanted to go by the old house or maybe go visit Dereck at the garage, which was something we sometimes did. But I told him that maybe we could skip those things for today. Instead, we turned up the radio and just drove for a while, as I leaned back and felt the sun on my face. Sometimes, when we were together, I glanced over and glimpsed my father in his resemblance. Whenever that happened, my mind flashed on the morning I went down to the basement to find Abigail gone and my father cleaning up the chaos with a strained look on his face. Why had she decided to go against our plan and leave during the night, stopping at Father Coffey's house on the way? And when my father discovered her gone, did he decide right then and there to make it look as though she had left on account of those things in our basement, arranging the scene just so in order to support that story? And did that wrench wrapped in a towel in his nightstand have something to do with those horses and the way they were broken? Some answers, I still did not know and supposed I never would. Mostly, I found myself wondering if he really did send Rose away because of his beliefs or if it was simply convenient once she caught on to what he was doing.

When all that becomes too much to think about, I turn to my journal still. There was only a handful of empty pages left when I arrived at Kev and Bev's, and I've since filled them with those things I wonder about, hoping the answers might be made clear. Just last night, in fact, I realized I had come to the final page. Instead of putting down any more questions, I decided to write about something else instead. This is what I wrote:

Sometimes at night, when it is dark inside my room, I get down on my knees to pray. First, I pray for my sister. And then I pray for my parents' souls. Whenever I do that, I feel something change in the air around me. It is more than their memory returning; it feels like their spirits. Despite all the things that haunted my mother and father during their time in this world, despite the mistakes they made too, the feeling of having them close brings me comfort somehow.

When I am finished praying and get into bed and close my eyes, I picture my father. Only not the person I knew. Instead, I conjure him as a young boy standing in the dark of that theater, watching shadows dance around him, having no idea about the truth of what they were and how they would change the course of his life.

And then I think of my mother beside me, hair fanned all around on the pillow the way it had been that night in our motel room so long ago. If I keep my eyes closed, I feel her there again. I hear her breath, hear her voice telling me, “Each of us is born into this life with a light inside of us .Â .Â . What's most important is to never let that light go out, because when you do, it means you've lost yourself to the darkness. It means you've lost your hope. And hope is what makes this world a beautiful place. Do you understand what I am trying to say?”

I think about those words a lot, and I think about their spirits too.

If you believe in those sorts of things.

I do and I don't believe.

But mostlyâmostly, mostlyâI do.

Acknowledgments

I
'd like to thank three amazing women in my life who make everything happen: My talented, insightful, and patient editor, Kate Nintzel, read endless drafts and helped to shape this story and keep it moving. My incredible literary agent, Joanna Pulcini, offered inspiration and devoted countless hours discussing these characters and figuring out their world. And Sharyn Rosenblum, my friend and book publicist, brings boundless energy and so much fun to our work together.

Also at HarperCollins, I am enormously grateful to Liate Stehlik, Michael Morrison, Lynn Grady, Virginia Stanley, Kayleigh George, Annie Mazes, Tavia Kowalchuk, Carla Parker, Beth Silfin, Andrea Molitor, Laurie McGee, Kim Chocolaad, Caitlin McCaskey, Erin Simpson, Jennifer Civiletto, and Margaux Weisman.

I am indebted to the Corporation of Yaddo, where I began writing this story in earnest while living in an old Tudor in the woods not unlike Sylvie's old Tudor in the woods. In particular, Elaina Richardson, Candace Wait, and Jonathan Santlofer helped immensely with my two generous residencies there.

Also tremendously helpful were homicide detective Dennis Harris of the Boston Police Department and Cory Flashner, the assistant district attorney of Suffolk County, Massachusetts, who sat with me in an interview room at the station and answered my endless “what if?” questions. Plus, Ed McCarthy answered all my questions about how certain things might happen in an old theater.

The careful responses and encouragement from my early readers were invaluable: Stacy Sheehan, Elizabeth Barnes, Carolyn Marino, Jennifer Pooley, Ken Salikoff, Katherine Hennes, and Jessica Knoll.

On the film and foreign fronts, I am indebted to Matthew Snyder and Whitney Lee for all they do on behalf of my books. At
Cosmo
, I'm thankful to current Editor-in-Chief Joanna Coles. I also had the great fortune to work side by side with
Cosmo
's previous longtime Editor-in-Chief, the one and only Kate White, and I owe her a huge thanks.

And then there's the people I'm just lucky to have in my life: Susan Segrest, Amy Chiaro, Betty Kelly, Michele Promaulayko, Abigail Greene, Isabel Burton, Amy Salit, Colleen Curtis, Cheryl (Cherry) Tan and Nicholas (Butter) Boggs, Ross Katz, Fred Berger, Kate Billman, Carol Story, Wade Lucas, Jamie Brickhouse, Esther Crain, Blake Ellison, Glenn Callahan, Boo Wittnebert, Brenda Tucker, Lucy (Lulu) Puls, Jeremy Coleman, Oscar (Oscy Pants) Gonzalez, Danielle Atkin, Adriana Trigiani, Hilary Black, Matthew Carrigan, Dean and Denise Shoukas, Bob Sertner, Alan Poul, Zoe Ruderman, Andrea Lavinthal, Ashley Womble, Christie Griffin, Dan Radovich, Diane Les Becquets, Jan Bronson, Ruth Calia Stives, Michael Taeckens, Kristin Matthews, Bethane Patrick, and David (Doo Doo) Vendette.

Finally, I'm always grateful to my family: Mom, Dad, Keri, Ray, Tony, Joyce, Mario, Birute, Paul, Beth, Christian, Yanna, and most especially, Thomas Caruso.

About the Author

J
OHN
S
EARLES
is the author of the national bestsellers
Boy Still Missing
and
Strange but True
. He frequently appears as a book critic on NBC's
Today
show and CBS's
The Early Show
. He is the Editor-at-Large of
Cosmopolitan
. His essays have been published in the
New York Times
, the
Washington Post
, and other national newspapers and magazines. He lives in New York City and can be found on Facebook and also on Twitter @searlesbooks.

www.john-searles.com

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Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa

Cover photograph Â© by Jennifer Short/Trevillion Images

“Little Things” from
The Gold Cell
by Sharon Olds, copyright Â© 1987 by Sharon Olds. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. Any third party use of this material,
outside of this publication, is prohibited. Interested parties must apply directly to Random House, Inc., for permission.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

HELP FOR THE HAUNTED.
Copyright Â© 2013 by John Searles. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

ISBN 978-0-06-077963-4

Epub Edition SEPTEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780062199430

Version 09062013

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