Spookygirl - Paranormal Investigator (23 page)

While I relayed her words to Isobel and Tim to keep them in the loop, Mom explained more about the true history of the Logan Street house. It was all much clearer from the other side, she said, especially since she’d had years to chat with James and Mary. James Riley, Jr., was a gentle, harmless man, and he and Abigail had been happy
at first. They originally hired Mary as a live-in maid, but they grew to love her like a daughter.

Over time, though, Abigail got sick. Without access to modern psychiatric treatment, she suffered as her delusions became worse and worse. She grew insanely jealous, assuming every woman who entered the house, or even passed them on the street, had an eye on James. Eventually, her jealousy extended to Mary. Abigail saw the girl as competition for James’s affection.

One night, during a raging thunderstorm, Abigail confronted Mary. Abigail became violent; the two tussled, and Abigail flung Mary down the stairs. James heard the struggle; when he left his study to investigate, he found a crazed Abigail screaming horrible things down the staircase at an unmoving Mary. To Abigail, James’s horrified concern for Mary was further proof of her suspicions. She rushed at James, shoving him down the stairs as well—but the force of her effort was so great that she lost her footing and went tumbling after him. James and Abigail both broke their necks on the way down and died almost instantly. Mary was only left unconscious, but eventually succumbed to head injuries five days later.

As a ghost, James witnessed the last days of Mary’s suffering and was heartbroken. He vowed to protect her in death as he had been unable to in life.

“We never knew about Mary when we were
investigating,” Mom said. “She had no family, and she was a servant, so her death went undocumented.”

The violence of that evening tied all three of them to the house. Abigail couldn’t move on until she let go of her irrational anger and acknowledged what she’d done. Mary and James couldn’t leave because their fates were too intertwined with Abigail’s.

In death, Abigail had directed her anger toward anyone who entered the house. She focused the worst of her harassment on women; given the strength of her wrath, I was surprised she hadn’t physically injured some of the place’s past owners. She’d been able to lash out so violently at Mom, shoving her down the stairs, because Mom was able to sense her. After that night, Mom had been stuck in the house, too. She spent years trying to reason with Abigail and help the three ghosts move on. Nothing worked; Abigail was too disillusioned.

“What was so different about tonight?” I asked.

“I think it’s because you were here. Arguments from a ghost just don’t have the same impact as those from a living person. You were fantastic back there, the way you reasoned with Abigail and got her to stop raging and listen to you.”

“So in a way,” I said, “I really helped you out by coming here.”

“You sure did. But don’t think you’re getting off that easy, young lady,” Mom said, making me groan. She might’ve been a ghost, but she was still my mom, and I could feel a scolding coming on. “What on earth were you thinking, coming here by yourselves without a proper team?”

From the remnants of broken ghost-hunting equipment littering the floor, I figured it was pretty clear why we were there.

“I wanted to finish your file for Logan Street.”

“I appreciate that,” Mom said, her voice softening. “But how much experience do you have with investigations? I’m sure your dad’s taken you on a few, but—”

“He hasn’t.”

“What?” Mom frowned.

“He doesn’t do that anymore. He won’t even talk about ghosts…or about you.” I raised my chin a little, happy to tattle.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said. “Surely he knew I’d want him to work with you. I wasn’t sure how much you could handle when you were younger, but I certainly intended for your paranormal education to continue before now. You deserved that.”

“That’s how I feel!”

Quickly, I told her a little more about the last seven
years—being shuttled back and forth between Dad and Aunt Thelma, being bullied into pretending the whole ghost thing wasn’t true, living with Dad over the funeral home.

The more I talked, the more Mom grimaced and shook her head. “This is just ridiculous. Your father and I are going to have quite a talk about this, Violet. Honestly, I die and disappear for a few years, and I can’t even trust him to make sure you’re receiving a proper education. And…Aunt Thelma? I’m sorry, sweetie.”

“Don’t be too hard on him,” I said quickly. “He did the best he could. Besides, how are you going to talk to him?”

“With you acting as translator, of course.”

“So…you’re coming home with me? You’re not going to vanish and go, like, into the light or wherever?”

“There’s not really a light,” Mom said conspiratorially. “That’s just a rumor. When a ghost is ready to move on, he just…does. But I’m not going anywhere yet. At the very least, I have to set things right with you. We’ve missed out on too much. There are so many things I need to tell you. You’re going to be stuck with me for a while.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said.

I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Before we left for home, Mom fussed over Tim and Isobel for a few minutes. She knew I was okay except for the bruises, but she thought my friends should go to the emergency room, just in case their encounters with Abigail had caused unseen damage. She was especially concerned about Tim and the possibility of a concussion, since he’d hit his head hard enough to lose consciousness and draw blood. Both of them argued otherwise; Isobel used the sleeve of her torn and ruined shirt to blot the congealing blood from Tim’s forehead, proving that the cut there was minor. After helping Mom wrestle a reluctant promise from Tim that he’d see a doctor right away if he felt dizzy or sick over the next few days, I packed Buster back into his box. He was surprisingly agreeable this time, probably because Mom was there. Or maybe he’d just had a rough night and wanted to go home.

“That was ingenious,” Mom said, indicating the box. “I managed to crate-train him, but I never would’ve thought of transporting him like that.”

I beamed, extremely proud that she would compliment one of my ideas so highly.

Mom didn’t ride home with us, but now that she could leave the Logan Street house, she promised she’d meet me at the apartment.

“Are you sure you can find it?” I asked.

“You’ll be there, and I can always find you now,” she said.

Isobel dropped off Tim, then me. In the funeral home’s driveway, I offered to let her stay over. It was late, and her parents already thought she was staying at my place.

She thought about it for a second, then shook her head. “Nah. You and your parents probably have a lot to work out. If my folks ask about tonight, I’ll make up some excuse. Maybe I’ll tell them we had a fight and that you’re a total bitch.”

I grinned. “That would explain the bruising, too.” She and Tim would both be making up a few excuses for their injuries.

Isobel drove away, leaving me with a bag full of equipment and a box full of Buster. As I let myself in the front door, I felt a sort of calming, pleasant breeze in the
air. A blue glow materialized in the front hall as Mom appeared beside me.

“Dad’s probably asleep,” I said, although I wasn’t sure. Funeral directors work weird hours, and since he’d had a body to tend to early that evening, he might have still been in the back, finishing up the embalming process. Just in case, I crept back past the viewing rooms and peeked in. Sure enough, the desk lamp in Dad’s office was on, and although the office itself was empty, I could hear sounds coming from beyond the embalming room door. He kept a small television in there; it sounded like he’d broken out his classic
Star Trek
DVDs.

“You really live here?” Mom asked, sounding undisturbed and merely curious.

I nodded. Then I knocked on the door to the embalming room.

“Violet?” Dad called. Captain Kirk stopped making entries in his captain’s log as Dad pressed pause. “Is that you? What are you doing home?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Can we talk?”

“Of course. Give me just a minute,” he said, his voice muffled by the door. “I’m cleaning up the chemicals.”

He emerged a moment later, smelling like the strong soaps and cleansers he used to disinfect bodies. He frowned a little in concern.

“It’s so late. I thought you were staying at your friend’s
house. Did something…” He paused and trailed off. His eyes narrowed. He looked down the hall one way, then the other, glancing right through Mom without seeing her. Somehow he sensed she was there, even if he didn’t realize it right away.

“Violet,” he said, his voice soft with wary concern, “what’s going on?”

“You can feel her, can’t you?” I asked, excited. “Even though you can’t see her, you can tell she’s here!”

Dad was silent for a very long time. He stood, unmoving, in the doorway. Slowly he raised a hand to his forehead, as if he thought he might pass out. He looked like he wasn’t even breathing.

Then, quietly, he said, “Robin?”

As it turned out, Mom and Dad didn’t even need my translation services.

“I’m here,” Mom answered, her voice wavering with emotion.

That was when Dad really did pass out. He sprawled back into the embalming room.

“Ack!” I jumped forward and managed to catch him before his head conked against the industrial tile floor. He was only half conscious, but I guided him into a sitting position before he could crumple again and hurt himself. He leaned against the door frame for a minute with his eyes closed. When they finally opened, they blinked
rapidly a few times, as if he were trying to wake himself up. Then he focused on me.

“Dad? Are you okay?” I wondered if I should ask how many fingers I was holding up.

“I could’ve sworn I heard your mother’s voice,” he said sadly. “It was the damndest thing. Sounded just like her. Maybe I’m working too hard.”

“Dad, she’s here.”

“Peter?” Mom asked gently, crouching beside me. “It’s all right.”

Still bewildered, Dad shook his head. “That can’t be,” he said to me, still clinging to the idea that the voice he’d heard was a delusion. “Your mom would’ve moved on years ago. Even if she were here, I can’t hear ghosts the way she could…The way you can.”

I remembered what had happened when I’d reunited Isobel and Dirk; there were no hard and fast rules when it came to the spirit world.

“Sometimes there are exceptions. You and Mom loved each other more than anyone else in the world. Why wouldn’t you, of all people, be able to communicate with her if she’s still here?”

“Because if I could, she would’ve come to me a long time ago.”

“She wanted to, Dad, but she couldn’t,” I said. “She was trapped.”

Looking a little pained at his reaction to her presence, Mom reached out. She tapped a translucent finger lightly against the bridge of Dad’s nose. It was a sign of affection I remembered from when she was alive. Dad jumped, looking startled, and touched his nose.

“You felt that,” I said. “That was her.”

“Robin?” Dad looked around the hall again, his eyes searching wildly.

“I think he could see me if he really tried,” Mom said to me.

Dad heard her. “I can’t! Believe me, I wish I could!”

“You have to believe it’s possible,” I said, hardly able to believe I was about to coach him in the very subject he’d denied me for so many years. “Close your eyes and concentrate. Mom will talk. Listen to her voice. Try to sense where she is. When you know exactly where to look, slowly open your eyes.”

He followed my instructions, listening intently while Mom told him how much she’d missed him, and how sorry she was for not coming back sooner. After she said she loved him, his eyes fluttered open…and focused on her.

“I love you, too, Robin,” he whispered. His voice cracked; his eyes shimmered with tears.

With a yelp, Mom leaped forward and threw her arms around him, almost knocking him over. To my
astonishment, he reached up and hugged her back, as if she were flesh and blood. They laughed and cried and kissed.

I was a little jealous that they could hug each other like that. I mean, even I wasn’t able to reach out and physically hug Mom. But it made sense, I guess. Some people are just meant to be together, no matter what, and nothing can separate them completely. Not even death.

My parents were definitely soul mates. I could see it very clearly in their embrace. I could hear it in their voices as they spoke to each other in joy and disbelief.

The three of us went upstairs to the apartment’s tiny living room and stayed up talking all night. Buster, now free from his box, played happily around us, tossing his squeaky burger around and dropping the temperature until Dad and I grabbed sweatshirts.

I came clean about everything Dad didn’t already know—my plans to finish Mom’s file, my “reborrowing” of the equipment, my trek to Riley Island with Isobel and Tim. Normally Dad would’ve been mad, but with Mom sitting next to him on the couch, holding his hand, he couldn’t get too pissed at me. Instead, he shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Violet. I didn’t realize how important this was to you. Or maybe I did realize it, but I didn’t want to admit it. That was wrong of me, and it was unfair to you. It doesn’t excuse some of these lies you’ve told, but…” He
glanced at Mom. “I think we can look past all that just this once, as long as it doesn’t become a habit.”

I shook my head vigorously. “It won’t. I promise.”

Mom told him everything about the Logan Street property, explaining the story I had just learned about Abigail and James and poor, overlooked Mary.

“I saw everything,” Mom said, referring to the night she died. “I can’t tell you how horrible it was, watching you and not being able to communicate.”

Dad wiped at his nose with his free hand. “It’s not your fault.”

“I should have been more careful that night,” she said. “I knew I was probably in over my head, but I thought I could help.”