Unhappy Medium
Copyright © 2009 by Elizabeth Cody Kimmel
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written
permission of the publisher.
Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at
www.lb-kids.com
Little, Brown Books for Young Readers is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First eBook Edition: April 2009
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental
and not intended by the author.
ISBN: 978-0-316-05255-9
Contents
I daydream a lot, especially during science class. I can dream up the perfect dessert, the perfect day, the perfect slice
of pizza, even the perfect boy. But I have to tell you, sleeping or awake I could never have imagined a place that looked
like the Whispering Pines Mountain House.
My best friend Jac’s mother was a painfully slow driver, so it seemed to be taking forever to get closer to the hotel itself.
But eventually she managed to pull the car into the circular drive by the main entrance. Almost immediately, a guy in a red-and-black
uniform and an embarrassing little cap approached our car.
“Checking in?” he asked. And he glanced at the backseat at me and Jac and gave us a little wink. Now that’s what I call service.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Gray, a little icily. “We’re with the Young Northeast Musician’s Convention.”
Jac’s mother is not exactly the warm and fuzzy type. I’m betting in a previous life she was Attila the Hun, or some other
big guy with a spear that scared everybody half to death and ate raw meat.
Jac leaned close to me and whispered. “Kat, what do you think? A place like this has to be seething with ghosts, doesn’t it?”
I didn’t quite take to the concept of
seething with ghosts.
But Whispering Pines was built in the mid-1800s, and it was enormous. As one of the oldest hotels in the northeast, the place
was certain to be filled with spirits, and I was betting some of them were going to be very happy to see me. What’s worse,
I was betting some of them
weren’t.
I didn’t ask to be a medium. It just happened. Apparently it runs in the family. My mom says if I ever have a child of my
own, chances are fifty-fifty that on the kid’s thirteenth birthday they’ll start seeing spooks, too. Then there will be three
consecutive generations of us who can communicate with the dead. If I have triplets, we could start our own spirit-seeing
volleyball team. Imagine the possibilities!
“Girls, I’m going to go inside and get us checked in. Why don’t you stay here with our things until I’m done?”
It wasn’t really a question. Jac and I nodded, and Mrs. Gray stepped out of the car and walked primly toward the entrance.
As usual, she was dressed like she’d just come from a reception at the White House.
“She seriously thinks the bellboy might rip off some of our stuff if we leave the car unattended,” Jac said. “I’m sure her
collection of tweeds and velvet headbands would cause a virtual stampede on eBay.”
“I think it’s your cello that she’s worried about,” I said.
“Well, that makes two of us,” Jac muttered, staring out the window.
After the huge deal Jac had made about quitting the cello just two months ago, I was as surprised as everyone else when she
started playing again. Secretly, I was pleased, but I tried not to make too much out of it. I knew Jac well enough to know
that if and when she wanted to talk, she’d let me know.
I examined her profile. Her red hair was pulled back with a silver barrette, exposing one tiny ear, and her eyebrows were
furrowed.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “Having second thoughts?”
Jac shrugged.
I remained silent. There was nothing I could say that would help the hopelessly complicated relationships that Jac had with
her mother, and with her cello. Jac was incredibly gifted — there was no doubt about that. But after a lifetime of being pushed
to excel at her music, Jac had rebelled.
Mrs. Gray had spent the last two months trying to lure Jac back to her musical studies. When she pitched the idea of attending
the weeklong YNMC convention at the famous Whispering Pines Mountain House, Jac agreed — under one condition.
I had to be invited, too.
“Let’s at least get out of the car,” Jac said. “I want to smell the mountain air. I don’t think the cello-thieving bellboy
will try to make a move if we’re standing right here.”
I agreed with a giggle, and we climbed out of the SUV, which was the size of a small hut. I think Mrs. Gray thought it was
safer to drive a ginormous car.
“This will be so worth it,” Jac said, taking my arm. “Look at this place. Look at that
lake
! There are supposed to be hiking trails all over the place, and you can take boats out on the water. I even heard there’s
a labyrinth in one of the gardens. I’ve never been in one, have you?”
I shook my head, pleased to see Jac looking so animated.
“And the best thing, Kat, the reason I agreed to come, is that none of the YNMC stuff is required. You show up to what you
want, when you want. And the parents have their own meetings, so they can’t play prison warden 24–7. No pressure, for once.
We’ll have plenty of time for some
adventures.
”
She whispered the last word, and I knew that the adventures Jac most wanted were of the supernatural kind. Though Jac had
an almost pathological fear of everything from yellow-jackets to food poisoning, she had a hearty interest in the spirit world.
Her enthusiasm had not been thwarted by the mega-haunted house we’d explored over spring break or by the ghost of the miserable
flute player who’d haunted the school library. I had chosen my best friend wisely, because I had come to learn all too well
that spirits flocked to me like moths to a flame.
As we waited for Jac’s mom to return, enjoying the sun on our faces, my eye was drawn to a figure approaching on my right.
She was a very tall, heavyset woman of a grandmotherly age with a severe face and a constricting Victorian outfit of long
full skirts and a cinched-in waist. She walked regally with a serious sense of purpose and was surrounded by an electric flicker
that only the alternately energetically abled can achieve. Dead, you know. So I wasn’t even in the door yet and I’d seen my
first ghost.
Jac’s mother came out to get us, turning over the luggage and the keys to her monster SUV to the bellboy with obvious reluctance.
“We’re on the fifth floor,” she said, casting a suspicious last look at the bellboy over one shoulder as we walked inside.
And she handed me something brass colored, attached to a tag.
“Here’s your key, Katherine. An actual key, if such a thing provides any security these days. How archaic.”
My mom and I didn’t travel much, but even I knew that most hotels used plastic key cards to open doors. I loved the old brass
key, which felt cold and heavy in my hand as we waited for the elevator. My room number was 505 — easy enough to remember.
The official plan was that Jac and her mother would share one room, and I would have another. So not cool, and Jac and I decided
not to mention this little detail to my mom. Anyway, Jac was already plotting to modify this arrangement — her theory being
that her mother would agree to anything to keep her at the music conference now that we’d arrived. She shot me a knowing look
as the ancient creaking elevator arrived.
We rode the elevator up five floors in silence. Jac’s mother clutched the railing on the back of the car, white knuckled,
and I have to admit the elevator did seem a little shaky. As it lurched along, Jac’s hand shot out and she grabbed onto the
railing, too. The sight of both Mrs. Gray and Jac hanging on almost cracked me up. I guess Jac inherited her anxieties directly
from her mom. To me, this was like wearing a seat belt in an airplane. If the thing goes down, you’re toast either way.
The hallway on the fifth floor was dimly lit and heavily carpeted. Everything was super plush, highly polished and slightly
musty — “Victorian chic,” as I’d seen it described on a blog review of the Mountain House. I much preferred it to the Pleasantview
Motor Inn my mom and I stayed in last year for our one glorious day of room service and indoor swimming. Family vacation,
Roberts-style.
Our rooms were at the end of the hall, facing one another. Jac grinned wildly at me and waggled her eyebrows up and down while
her mother fumbled with the key to room 504.
“I’ll be over soon,” she mouthed, and I nodded and slipped the key to room 505 in the keyhole. It turned smoothly and the
door opened with a low-pitched creak. I walked into the room, shutting the door behind me. It was big, with a double bed,
an enormous wardrobe, and a door that opened onto a little porch with a lake view. I crossed to the window and looked out
at the water, sighing with happiness. This was the perfect way to start the summer. I loved Whispering Pines Mountain House
already.
I was turning around to go inspect the bathroom and see what kind of free stuff was in there when I found my way blocked.
It was the large, imposing woman I’d seen outside.
Instinctively I jumped back, because we were practically nose to, well, collarbone, and mumbled “sorry.”
The woman’s eyebrows shot up.
“Yes, I can see you,” I said. There wasn’t any point in waiting to be asked.
The woman looked to the left, then to the right, then back at me. She looked as if, I’m sorry to say,
she’d
seen a ghost. Her mouth dropped open in frank astonishment. The shawl that she had around her shoulders dropped to the floor
on one side. Automatically, she reached up and pulled it back over her arm, never letting her eyes leave mine.
Okay. This one wasn’t going to be easy. But that didn’t mean she had to be difficult.
“I can see you,” I repeated, slowly and deliberately. “Is there some way that I can help you?”
The woman took a step back, and her gaze intensified. Very slowly, she began to smile.
“Can I help you?” I repeated, because frankly the Victorian specter was starting to get on my nerves. Did she speak English?
“Success,” the woman whispered, her eyes widening. “I have lifted the veil! Lifted the veil!”
What? Did the woman think I was a bride or something?
“Excuse me, I don’t understand,” I said.
“I knew that with patience … you are here at last! I have summoned you!” the woman proclaimed triumphantly.
I sighed. Spirits were often muddled. They didn’t know what year it was, or where they were, and they sometimes mistook you
for someone else. I was getting used to it. But this was
my
room — I had to sleep here. So the Victorian lady and I needed to get our ducks in a row.
“Okay. Now is there something you need?”
You have to ask, because sometimes spirits are wandering around their old haunts, so to speak, because they enjoy it. They’re
attached to something about the place, and they return to it frequently. Like comfort food. Not all ghosts were wandering
around tormented and confused and unable to cross over to the other side. Those just seemed to be the ones I attracted.
The woman raised both hands in the air in a biblical-looking gesture.
“Madame Serena triumphs! Detractors and skeptics will laugh no more. The Colonel’s wife will be vindicated. You are here,
as clear as day. I see you as you see me.”
I nodded, tapping my foot a little and resisting the impulse to look at my watch. You couldn’t just tell a ghost to get on
with it. She’d tell me what she wanted when she was good and ready.
She
looked
good and ready. She took a step toward me and opened her mouth so wide I could see her phantom tonsils.
“I command you,” she cried, “to
do my will!
”
Oh for Pete’s sake,
I thought.
But my irritation was interrupted by a loud knock on the door.
“Excuse me for a sec,” I said, crossing to the door.
I peered out through the peephole and saw the bellboy from check-in, holding my old suitcase in a neatly gloved hand.
