Won't Let Go (2 page)

Mr. Realtor speaks up. I’d nearly forgotten he was still here. “Like I said before, the house needs a good once over. It’s been vacant for a few years.”

Only a few years? Here, I was thinking decades.

Pressing me tightly to her, Mom says, “Honey, we’ll give this place a good dustin’ and moppin’ tomorrow. We’ll have it clean and ready for a fresh coat of paint—your choice—in no time. I promise.”

This calms me only slightly. I still can’t forget what I saw. There wasn’t a spider, big and black or otherwise. It
was
a guy. And I watched him disappear into thin air before my eyes. What was he doing here? Was it really a ghost?

I’m not sure this was the sort of “clean slate” I had in mind. I’d really rather not add a whopping amount of crazy to my new life
.

When the final papers on the deed to the house were signed, keys handed over and one last, “anything you need Dr. Charles, just give me a ring,” Mr. Realtor left, his plump, round body stuffed into his little red car.

That’s when the real fun started, or so Mom said. “Now we get to clean up, unpack and make this our new, fabulous home.”

The movers had done a good job. I suppose that’s what they’re paid for. Each labelled box was in the appropriate room. Mom and I started unpacking the necessities, while Dad ran around looking for tools and assembling beds.

Having a bed, in my mind, is the most important thing. There ain’t no way I’d sleep on the floor of this place. Not until some heavy disinfectant has done its work, sanitizing the floor and taking away the dust and grime.

Reaching into a box, Mom pulls out various cleaning supplies. “Are you ready to start your new school next week? Spring break’s almost over and I know it’ll be tough, but you have a chance to make some friends, some
nice
friends here.”

The box I'm unpacking is stuffed to the brim, bulging with linens. “I had nice friends back home.”

“No.” She pulls out the illustrious bottle of disinfectant.

I grab the bottle from her.
Me and you will be getting to know each other very well.

Mom adds, “You had friends. Nice just isn’t the word I’d use to describe them.”

So we might have gotten into a bit of trouble, maybe some drinks—the alcoholic kind—were involved a few times. But, that’s hardly cause to say my friends weren’t nice. I mean up until the move, they always had my back. As a growing teenager, well it’s only normal to experiment. Granted that three A.M. ride to the police station for destruction of property—it was only a little spray paint—and the building looked so much prettier—wasn’t one of my finer moments. Though of course, Mom blamed it all on them. I was just the impressionable youth they tainted with their rebellious ways. If only she knew it had been my idea to decorate that cement wall. Then again, that would just give the two of us another reason to fight. But that’s behind me, the fighting and the mischief. I’m not going to be that person anymore.

Hand towels and washcloths make their way from the box to the marble kitchen counter. “What about Bryce? You liked him, right?”

There’s a pause, a long pause.

She doesn’t even need to answer. Her nose twitches, and her eyes avert as I stare her down.

Bryce and I had been together for three years. He came to family dinners, birthday parties, and all this time, I was foolish enough to believe they liked him.

How dumb am I?

“Sure, honey. He was nice. Just...not—”

Dad saves Mom from having to finish that sentence. “Beds are all done,” he says, entering the kitchen. His Hawaiian shirt has a layer of dust caked into the fabric. The bright and cheerful flowers now look withered and brown. “Hey, looks good in here.” He walks over to Mom and gives her a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Is it time for some grub?”

“Grub? Who even says that? Are you sure you’re a brilliant doctor?” I ask.

“Damn right I am. I have the fancy plaques to prove it.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

Walking over to the fridge, Mom pulls the heavy stainless steel door open. “Well, Mr. Saunders did say his wife left a casserole...” she says with uncertainty.

Unlike the rest of the house that has
the old charm
of being built long ago, the kitchen has been updated. The fridge is huge, the countertops swirled marble, the range, full of gas burners and one of those fancy double ovens. This is a five star chef’s dream.

Pulling out the lonely oval ceramic dish, Mom places it on the counter. We all stand, hovering over the island, waiting for its contents to be revealed. Slowly, inch by inch, the foil lid is pulled back.

We gasp, staring down at—

God, what is that?

My nose scrunches. “That is just rank. It’s like dirty socks, BO and puke in a casserole dish.”

Dad puts a hand over his mouth. “That looks like someone’s innards.”

“Don’t be so silly you two. It’s just—”

“It’s just what Mom?” My stomach does flips, feeling topsy-turvy.

Tucking strands of hair behind her ear, Mom stares down at the red casserole. It’s too chunky and unrecognizable to be chili—not that it counts as a casserole and too weird looking to be some sort of sauced meat dish. “Well, I just don’t know. But who wants the first bite?” She snickers.

“Not a chance. That looks like nothing I’ve ever seen before.” I cover my mouth, holding a gag at bay.

“Um...I’m with Alex, how about we take the car and find a pizza joint. Toss that in the trash and forget it was ever here,” Dad says.

I have a car.
“Dad? When’s my car gonna get here?”

Dad didn’t think I was old enough, or maybe responsible enough, to drive the car myself, nor did he want Mom taking hers either. So we all piled into his stuffy
old man
sedan while one of those big semi car haulers transported Mom’s and mine here without us. I can’t believe I forgot all about my—baby.

Digging into his pocket, Dad produces my smiley face key chain, even jingles it in front of my face. “I forgot about these.”

I snatch the keys from him, midair.

“They dropped the cars off this morning, too. It’s around back. In the garage.”

I’m already striding towards the door as I yell over my shoulder, “I’ll get the pizza.”

Mom, always the thinker in the family, replies, “Do you have enough mon…”

The door slamming against the wood frame cuts off the rest of that sentence. I’m just happy I’m free. Slowly I was beginning to go crazy in that house with the boring task of emptying box after box. Also, let’s not forget, what I’m sure I saw, but the longer I think about it the more impossible and ridiculous it sounds to me.

There are no such things as ghosts!

I gallop down the stairs, too excited to even worry about the rotting steps. Hopping off the last one, I race around the house towards the garage. As I round the corner, the old building, leaning hard to the left comes into view. I skid to a stop.

The hairs on the back of my neck raise, bumps prickle my skin. It’s like a hundred pairs of eyes are boring into me, turning my cheeks from pale and cool to bright red and scorching hot.

And even though it’s the last thing I
really
want to do, I look up.

It’s a glimpse. A hundredth of a second glimpse. But I see, without a doubt, the rustling curtain and the silhouette of something in the window. 

Not real, not real, not real, NOT REAL!

I bring my hand to the side of my face, shielding my peripheral and force myself forward. Staring only at the rock covered ground and my ratty, old black sneakers, I rush towards the garage. The fear that’s propelling me forward, however, doesn’t stop me from chancing a look over my shoulder.

Nothing. Nothing’s there
.

Again, the curtain hangs motionless on the rod.

But it was there, wasn’t it?

Thankfully the huge doors are already open as I draw closer. I fumble with my keys. The door to my car falls open, and I slide in. Quickly, hands still shaking, I force the key into the ignition, turn it and let my baby roar to life.

There’s no such thing as ghosts, no such thing as ghosts, no ghosts.
My head reels as I pull out of the garage. The tires spit up gravel as I speed down the lane.

“God Dammit!” I pound my hand into the steering wheel as my heart races, fast and furious in my chest. I’ve been here less than a day, like six hours, and it’s turning me into a crazy person!

There are no such things as ghosts,
I tell myself again and again. I say it when I turn onto Oak Street, leaving Elm in the dust. I say it when I have a near miss with a pedestrian on Poplar Crescent. And I say it again, “There are no such things as ghosts,” loud and clear when I pull my blue Mustang into the angled parking spot in front of
Nick’s Authentic Pizzeria
. It’s as if saying it out loud will change the outcome that my brain has already started to accept.

After countless more boxes, moving the couches in the living room again, and then again, even gorging myself on what might be the best pizza I’ve ever had, I lie in my bed.

In my new room.

In my new house.

The blankets are pulled up high around my neck, pillow propped up against the wooden headboard as I stare out over the space.

I’m afraid to shut my eyes. Afraid to drift off to sleep. But most importantly, afraid this house is making me crazy.

But, I can’t fight off the fatigue of the long drive and a tiresome day. My eyelids grow heavy. Forcing them to stay open becomes too much of a challenge. They fall, making the stream of light from the almost full moon disappear...

Tap, tap, tap—
My eyes fly open.

Tap, tap, tap
—I sit up in bed, my heart pounding in my chest.

Tap, tap, tap
—
What the hell is that?

I pull the blankets even tighter against my body, my eyes dart this way and that, trying to find the origin of the sound—

But it stops.

The room is once again silent.

I’m freaked. If I were twelve years old again, I’d hop off my bed, run down the hall and curl up in bed with my parents. But I’m not. I’m seventeen. Almost an adult.

Besides, there might be something under the bed. It might reach out and grab me by the ankles swallowing me up into a black hole.

It happens in the movies all the time.

A few minutes of silence go by with no trace of any more sounds. Again, I’m finding it hard to keep my eyes open as drowsiness threatens to consume me. Finally, I let it. I close my eyes, because I am
almost
an adult and
there are no such things as ghosts!

Squeak, squeak, squeak
—I’m jerked out of a fitful sleep, and my eyes whip open.

I bolt up. Petrified.

Squeak, squeak, squeak
—“Who—who’s there?” My voice trembles.

The sound, once again, stops.

Mustering up a whole lot of courage, I crawl, gradually making it to the end of my bed. A whoosh of cool air tickles my cheek. But I don’t laugh. I stay, motionless, peering out over the clutter of boxes, the scattered furniture not and a sheer covered window.

Then like a tornado in full force, a huge wind picks up. It whips my hair against my face, the curtain flails violently and boxes tumble. The contents spill out over the floor and papers circle around the room as if they have wings. The light overhead flickers on and off.

My hand comes to my mouth, and I bite down on the skin. A metallic taste hits my tongue. It pushes the scream that wants out down because I’m frozen stiff. I can’t bring myself to move another inch. Instead, tears well in my eyes, spill over and stream down my cheek.

“Stop! Stop it!” I yell, but my voice is muffled by my hand.

More boxes plummet to the ground, my clothes slide across the floor, books thud against the wall, and I can’t take it.

This is so unreal that it
can’t be real
.

“Get out! Get out and leave me alone! I’ve, I’ve got bleach!” 

I hope any minute my parents will awake. That the commotion will bring them here and make this horror stop.

But it’s not real.

This must be a dream.

Because, there are no such things as ghosts!

“Please, just get out!” I yell again.

One, two, three wake up! Wake up!

Then, just when I think things can’t get any more intense—that there aren’t any more things to fly around the room like they have a mind of their own—and that the whistling of the wind can’t get any louder, a ferocious voice bellows, “NO! You get out!”

The breath in my lungs is knocked out as I gasp with shock. I pinch my eyes closed and repeat over and over, “It’s just a dream, it’s just a dream...”

When the wind stops howling and the force stops blowing, I reopen my eyes. Everything is just as it was before I shut the lights off and came to bed. The boxes are neatly stacked, my clothes still in them, papers aren’t strewn about and books aren’t covering every inch of my floor. Not a thing is out of the place. The moon still streaks across the floor, as high in the sky as it was the last time I really looked at it.

It
was
all a nightmare.

I flop back against the bed, almost positive I'll never be able to get back to sleep.

Warmth caresses my cheeks and stirs me awake. I sit up, amazed it's morning, but even more amazed I was able to close my eyes, fall asleep and make it through the night relatively unscathed. As I roll out of bed, my feet hitting the cool wooden planks, I’m still unconvinced it was all a dream. It was so real. So vivid. My imagination just isn’t that good.

I double check the space anyway, making sure everything is still in order, and it is. Sighing, I push myself off the bed and tip-toe to the bathroom that is so conveniently attached to my room.

One perk I didn’t have back in California.