The White Night (15 page)

“Say you’re a husband
and wife on an episode of
Graveyard
. If you’re absolutely positive your
house is haunted, how would you ever have sex in it without feeling like some
pervert ghost is watching you? What if he’s off in the corner cranking one out
while you get busy? How do people do that?”

During our decade
of investigations, the question always plagued me, too. I’d never been brazen
enough to ask. It always seemed too personal. “I dunno,” I tell her. “Maybe in
the heat of the moment, you forget?”

“You
forget
?”

“Best I got.”

She turns the
bottle up, spills a little out the sides of her mouth, then wipes her lips with
a hoodie sleeve. “Maybe you learn to be an exhibitionist,” she says, numbly
looking around the living room. “This place is haunted. Did I mention that?”

“Who’s here?”

“My great uncle
Gabe lived here for a few years and then died of a heart attack. It has to be
him. I can smell his tobacco.”

And then something
clicks. At first, it was a flicker in the back of my mind, like an EVP from a
weakened spirit many planes of existence away, back when she put her delicate
toes up against my thigh.

I could make
amends.

How do people
have sex when a house is haunted?

This place is
haunted.

I shove up from
the couch, slamming my knee against the coffee table, and stumble to the side.
“Sorry, I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Are you kidding
me with this? You’re trying to
seduce
me?”

“I—
seduce
you?”

“Is this some kind
of long con, Coeburn? You come to me with a sob story about your blind grandma
and these black-eyed kids because you knew that’d get my attention, and then what?
Bring me back here, bump uglies? You show me a good time, and I finally cave? Nope.
The afterglow is a myth! And Ellen probably isn’t even blind, is she?”

Incredulous,
Lauren shoots up from the couch and says, “They were
real
, Ford. They
were here. And I came to you for help.” She marches over to me, slams a finger
into my breastbone, one, two, three times, accentuating each word. “We. Needed.
Help.”

She crosses her
arms. “And I’m not trying to get you into bed.” The quiver in her voice betrays
her anger. “I just needed you to let me in. I needed you to feed me with—with
your soul.”

I feel like I’m on
some paranormal soap opera. “Oh, God. Gag me, please,” I say, flinging my hands
into the air. “You’ve got an hour. If those little bastards don’t show up by
then, I’m gone, and you’re on your own.” I spin on my heels and stomp down the hall.

“Where are you
going?”

“To take a piss,
if that’s okay with you.”

I jerk the
bathroom door open, step inside, and slam it closed behind me.

The small window
above the bathtub is open. Flecks of rain flitter inside, carried on wind that
shoulders up against the solid shower curtain, billowing the looser folds of
purple cloth, and then I remember, I didn’t check in here earlier. I had been
too busy trying to get the ancient camcorder set up.

I’m sure it’s
fine.

Next to “Hey,
y’all, watch this!” I’m certain that “I’m sure it’s fine” ranks high on the
list of famous last words.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Chelsea Hopper

Chelsea opens her
eyes, having dreamed of claws and fangs. Darkness and the scent of rotten eggs.
Always the same.

She hears the scrabble
of sharp nails on a hard surface, and for a moment, she believes that her
nightmares may have become reality. She gasps and blinks hard, once, twice, and
then shakes her head, finally taking stock of her surroundings. She’s in her
classroom at school and the noise is Mrs. Hill scribbling on the chalkboard.

Chelsea squints at
the writing, manages to make out something about 1492 and Columbus. She needs
glasses but hasn’t told anyone, doesn’t want anyone to know she has a weakness.
Her parents have told her she’s strong for so long now, it’s second nature.
She’s the girl who bears the scars of a demon’s hand. That makes her legendary,
according to the magazine her mother showed her, and legendary people aren’t
weak. At least she thinks they aren’t.

It also makes her
a target to some of the kids her age—not only in her class, but in her entire
school. She would be okay if it were only the couple of boys sitting across the
room—Logan and Dylan—who pick on her, but there are more of them. Everywhere.
All day.

In the hall. At
lunch. At recess. In the restroom.

If it weren’t for
her best friend Tania, who stands a head taller than everyone else, Chelsea
would have ran away long ago.

Tania is fun.
Tania is nice to her.

Tania can punch
harder than the older boys when it’s necessary.

Tania protects her
when she can, but she can’t always be there.

Chelsea hears a hushed
whisper to her right.

“Earth to
spacegirl. Wake up.”

Chelsea takes her
eyes away from the board and sees Tania’s welcoming smile. Tania, with her dark
skin, her curly hair, and teeth whiter than bleached sheets; she’s a guardian
angel. The sight of her relaxes Chelsea.

She’s had the
dreams for ages now, but never at school, never in the middle of the day. And
still, when Tania playfully sticks out her tongue, Chelsea knows that she won’t
need to check her reflection in the bathroom for fangs and horns. She won’t
need to pull open the front of her jeans and check for demon boy parts.

Chelsea’s
grandmother loves Tania, calls her, “The safest port in Chelsea’s storm.”

Chelsea isn’t sure
what that means. She just likes the sound of it.

From the front of
the room, up near the chalkboard, Mrs. Hill says, “Ladies? Attention, please.”

Chelsea and Tania
say, “Yes, ma’am,” in unison, then giggle when they both whisper, “Jinx,
Pepsi!” at the same time too.

As soon as Mrs.
Hill returns to scribbling the white letters on the chalkboard, something hard
slams into the side of Chelsea’s head. She shouts, “Ouch!” as a small rock
bounces across her desk and tumbles to the floor. To Chelsea’s right, Dylan and
Logan snicker, trying desperately to contain their laughter.

Mrs. Hill snaps
around as Chelsea rubs her head. When she pulls her hand away, she sees fresh,
slick blood on her fingertips.

Mrs. Hill says,
“That’s it, Chelsea. Out.”

“But I didn’t do
any—”

“Out!” Mrs. Hill
points at the classroom door. “
Out
, I said. Take the empty desk into the
hallway.”

“I’m
bleeding
.
They hit me with a rock.”

“And what did you
do to provoke them?”

“Nothing! They’re
being mean!”

Tania shouts, “She
didn’t do anything!”

“Quiet, or you’re
out, too. You know the rules, Tania. One more detention means you’re suspended,
and if I were you, I’d think long and hard about my next words.”

Tania lowers her
head, mutters, “It’s not her fault,” under her breath, then goes silent.

“Well, Miss
Hopper? I’m waiting.”

Mrs. Hill is older
than Tyrannosaurus Rex. All the kids say so. She’s mean, too. She’s never been
on Chelsea’s side, thinks she’s a little girl that uses her fame for special
treatment. At least that’s what her parents say about her. They tried, many,
many times to get her into a new classroom, but that would mean leaving Tania
behind. Besides, Principle Cage said no anyway, refusing to give her any kind
of special treatment.

Mrs. Hill raises
her index finger. “I’m going to count to three. Take the empty desk into the
hall, then go see Nurse Miller. Come back when you’re patched up, sit in the
punishment desk, and we’ll discuss this later with Principle Cage. If you’re
finished with being the center of attention,
go
. One, two…”

Chelsea stands,
feeling blood trickle down the side of her scalp. “Wait until I tell my
parents,” she says, then darts for the door when Mrs. Hill glares at her,
cheeks flushed with anger. Chelsea yanks the “Bad Chair” with her, not caring
when the legs screech across the tile.

Behind her, Mrs.
Hill slams the door closed, the tiny square windows rattling in the center.

Chelsea shoves the
empty desk up against the beige-tiled wall and marches toward the nurse’s
office. She pulls her arms up, cradling herself, trying to hold back the
inevitable tears, refusing to touch the blood trickling along her neck.

Her sneakers
squeak on the freshly waxed black tiles. They sound like the screams of a dying
bird.

At least she gets
to see Nurse Miller, who is friendly and treats Chelsea like the normal child
she should be, instead of the celebrity that everyone thinks she is.

Nurse Miller says,
“Come in!” when Chelsea knocks.

She steps inside,
bottom lip protruding, shuddering, barely holding back the emotional dam, the
cracks growing wider with each tear that leaks out.

It splinters and
explodes when Nurse Miller looks at her with pity and tender concern, asking,
“Oh, honey, what happened?”

Chelsea balls up
her fists and rubs her eyes through the heaving sobs. She pushes broken words
out. “She’s so mean. They all are. I hate it here.”

Nurse Miller is impossibly
tall, and to Chelsea, it seems like days pass before the nurse bends all the
way down and puts a hand on her cheek. “I know, sweetheart. I know. Let me look
at you.” She nudges Chelsea lightly to her left and clucks her tongue, shaking
her head, as she lifts the soft blonde hair and examines the wound.

“Is it bad?”
Chelsea asks. “Somebody threw a rock and Mrs. Hill blamed me.”
Me
slides
out in a helpless squeak.

“I know, honey. I
know.”

I know
.
That’s what she always says. Chelsea has lost count of how many times she’s
been to see Nurse Miller, and even though she’s pretty and nice, and as tall as
an NBA basketball player, Chelsea expects to hear, “I know, honey. I know.”

But at least it’s
comforting. At least she sounds like she cares.

She asks Chelsea
to sit down.

The chair is cold
against Chelsea’s legs. She tugs at her shorts, trying to make them longer. She
sniffles and wipes her nose, then pushes leftover tears from her cheeks.

Nurse Miller asks Chelsea
to be still while she cleans and bandages the wound, but it’s hard.

It hurts. Chelsea
has to pee. She wants to run as far away as she can. She wants to burst back
into her classroom, grab Tania’s soft, plump hand, and run.

Run as hard as
they can down Parker Street, where they would go right onto Larder Road, the
one with all the beautiful maples trees along the sidewalk. The leaves are a
gorgeous green now, and in the fall, they’ll be full of amazing oranges and
reds. She pays attention to the colors around her now more than she used to.
That man, the therapist, the smelly one who made her uncomfortable—if he had
any good ideas, any at all, it was suggesting that Chelsea should learn how to
paint. He had said it would quiet her mind and “give her a creative outlet,”
whatever that meant.

Thankfully, her
parents loved the idea, and that day, they bought her an easel and paints,
brushes and a smock that made her feel like an official artist. They bought her
some DVDs, too. It was an entire series about painting pretty landscapes by
some guy with hair like Tania’s. Big, curly, and bushy, like a poofy ball on
the top of his head.

Chelsea loves
watching the videos nearly as much as painting. He seems like a loving, calm
soul, with his lilting voice that caresses the very air that his words cross.
He seems at peace, unlike Chelsea, and first she would sit for hours watching
the masterpieces he created with a simple flick of his wrist and a daub of his
sponge. It seemed so easy. Chelsea was sure she could do it.

Her first attempt
looked like somebody had dipped two angry cats in paint and then let them roll
around and fight all over a canvas. It was so horrible, she almost gave up
right there.
You’ll get it
, her parents had said.
It takes time.
Practice!

And she did. She
kept going. Not because her parents said so, but because for the first
time—ever, probably—she felt like her world was as it should be. No demon
claws, no haunted house, no children picking on her for being on television
before.

Lost in her
memories, she’s snatched back to the present with a wince as Nurse Miller
touches her scalp with a stinging cotton ball. She jerks away.

“Hold still. One
second, sweetheart. You don’t need stitches, but it’s a pretty nasty cut.
Honestly, I can’t believe that Mrs.—never mind. It’s not my place.”

“Tell me,” Chelsea
pleads.

Nurse Miller is
silent for a long time, dabbing at the cut, pushing Chelsea’s hair out of the
way, and breathing hard through her nose. Finally, she says, “Do you know what
secrets are, honey?”

Chelsea almost
giggles. What a silly question. “Uh…yeah?
Duh
.”

Nurse Miller
does
chuckle. “I know you know. Just checking. I shouldn’t even be telling you
this—Chelsea, listen to my words, please.”

Chelsea sees that
familiar look of pity in the nurse’s eyes, along with something extra in her
gaze. Anger, it feels like, and she hopes that the nurse doesn’t think she did
something wrong, too.

“Pinky swear me,”
Nurse Miller says.

“Okay.” Her tiny
finger is swallowed by the massive pinky. It’s fleshy and comforting.

“You may not—really,
I can’t believe I’m telling you this. This is
our
absolute secret, okay?
Remember you pinky swore.”

Chelsea fakes a
serious sigh. “Okay, sheesh. I promise and you can break my pinky if I tell.”

Nurse Miller
inhales deeply and lets her shoulders slump. Chelsea smells old coffee on her
breath, but that’s fine. It’s a comforting scent, like when her dad kisses her
before he leaves for work each morning. “Here goes. The only thing I’ll say is,
you may not have to put up with Mrs. Hill for much longer. There have been
plenty of…
complaints
. That’s it. Lock it up, throw away the key.”

Chelsea jumps up
from her chair, feeling the skin of her scalp pull against her small bandage. It
hurts, and yet, she’s so excited, it doesn’t matter. This is like a birthday
and Christmas all coming together at once. “Holy cow! Really?”

Nurse Miller
tries, unsuccessfully, to hide a smile. She stands, going up and up, higher and
higher, like a construction crane towering a hundred feet over the ground, like
the one Chelsea saw downtown last week. The smile remains even though she
pretends to sternly shake a finger. “Not a word, you understand? I’ll have that
pinky mounted on my wall.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Chelsea
salutes her. It seems like the right thing to do.

“Not even your
parents, and I’ll probably regret that I ever said anything. You needed some
good news, huh? Everybody does once in a—”

Beside them, the
door to the small infirmary slams open with enough force to shake the boxes of
bandages and bottles on the nearby shelves.

Mrs. Hill storms
inside, her bony, claw-like hand gripped tightly around Tania’s arm. Chelsea
gasps when she sees so much blood coming from her friend’s nose.

“This one,” Mrs.
Hill says between clenched teeth, shoving Tania forward. “Her, too. As soon as
they’re both cleaned up, send them straight to Cage’s office. Never seen such
lack of respect.” Mrs. Hill flings her arms in the air and swishes out the
door, her black skirt fluttering as she goes.

Tania smiles,
showing off her blood-stained front teeth. “I got them both for you,” she says.
“I got them
good
.”

It’s nice, what
Tania did for her, but look at what those boys did to her friend.

Chelsea thinks
about the dark creature in her dreams, and almost wishes it wasn’t a nightmare.

She might ask it
for help.

Just this once.