“He’s a little older…but two years isn’t that big a deal.”
“Shannon, I really don’t—”
“We’ve mapped out our whole summer. We’ll go running and hiking, and he’s going to help me work on my footwork.” She’s perched on the edge of my bed and looks so earnest I almost feel bad about giving her crap. Almost.
“Sounds like fun. Oh, wait, did I say fun? I mean it sounds like torture.”
Shannon doesn’t take my bait. “He’s taller than me, which is nice, because a lot of boys aren’t. Oh, and we have almost the same hair color. It’s funny, people see us together and think we’re brother and sister!”
“Okay, Shannon, that is gross,” I say. “Actually, this whole thing is gross. What the hell? Who are you and what have you done with my sister?”
Shannon’s face darkens. “Haley, I just know if you’d met him you’d love him too.”
“That’s enough,” I say. I whirl around, determined to ignore Shannon until she leaves. Unfortunately, in the process, I bump into my art table, knocking half of it to the floor. Shannon startles. She shakes her head. “Haley,” she mutters before leaving.
She says my name like she pities me. All because I didn’t jump on the Jim bandwagon. I guess I could be more supportive. She’s never been this gaga over a guy before. But I have more important things to worry about than Shannon’s love life.
I clean up the mess of papers and pencils and charcoal and hope I never have to hear the name Jim again.
I HAVEN’T BEEN sleeping well, and I’m so spent I don’t remember dozing off. I wake with a start, fully clothed, on top of my blanket. Hell, my shoes are still on. How did I even get up to my room? All this ghost stuff has me exhausted. I feel nice and well rested. Almost content.
That is, until my eyes focus and I see that one of the Grabbed Girls is standing off to the side, watching me sleep.
I leap off my bed and stumble across the room, nearly running into the wall trying to get out my door. Staggering down the hall, I make it around the corner, terrified that she’s followed me.
Checking over my shoulder, I shrink into Shannon’s doorway, cowering for a few moments. When the apparition doesn’t appear, I take a deep breath and work up the nerve to tiptoe back down the hall to my bedroom.
At the threshold, I glance inside. The Grabbed Girl hasn’t moved; she’s still staring at my bed. Slowly, her head turns toward me, rotating at a painfully sluggish pace. Her tortured expression searching, her head snaps toward me, and in a flash she has moved, her blood-soaked face inches from my own.
I can’t run away. My arms and legs shake violently, but I can’t make them move. As she leans closer, something inside me clicks, and I find my body responding to my brain’s desperate plea to escape. I flee to Shannon’s room and crawl into bed with her. She doesn’t even wake up.
It takes me a long while to stop shaking, but eventually I calm down as the adrenaline burns out of my system. Shannon’s body heat warms me, and her thunderous snores are oddly comforting. I tuck the blanket under my chin and stare at the closed door, knowing that it doesn’t make me safe. It won’t keep out a ghost.
I try to sleep, I really do. But just knowing one of the girls is in my room, lingering, makes it impossible. I keep seeing her head move toward me slowly; her searching, eyeless gaze.
After hours of restless dread, I push down my panic and get up to face her. I creep to my doorway, hoping that she’s vanished but knowing, deep down in the pit of my stomach, that she is still waiting. It is too much to hope that she’s lost interest.
As I feared, she hasn’t gone. She remains where I left her, turned to the doorway expectantly. She knew I’d be back. The moonlight doesn’t caress her features so much as highlight her otherness, shining through her figure to the wall. She doesn’t cast a shadow.
“I want to help you…,” I say. My words are too loud in the quiet house, and they catch in my throat. I lower my voice and try again. I hope she can hear me, that she understands me. “But I don’t know what I can do….” I trail off, realizing how dumb I sound.
She cocks her head, her blond hair swirling around her face, as if she’s floating in a pool. She takes a step forward, then another and another, and I stumble out of her way, not wanting her hazy form to touch me.
She drifts along the hallway, down the stairs. Bringing one transparent arm up, she motions for me to follow. Her pearl ring flashes on her long, thin finger and I realize who the Grabbed Girl is….It’s Coop’s sister, Emily. For a moment I wonder how she got her ring back from Mr. Cooper. Then I remember she isn’t real. A ghost girl with a ghost ring.
I take a deep breath and follow her down the stairs. She’s trying to tell me something—at least, I hope it’s that, and not that she wants to lock me in a trunk or show me visions of my dead family to scare the hell out of me. I don’t trust her, but I want so desperately to help her, to get her to move on and leave me alone.
She glides to the basement door, through the basement door, and I hesitate. Why does it have to be the basement? When I don’t immediately follow, I wonder if I can get away with going back to my room now that she’s gone. Maybe she’s done and has decided to haunt the basement for a while and let me get some rest.
I turn to find Emily waiting on the stairs.
“Shit,” I mutter.
Once again, with her strange grace, Emily coasts past me and through the basement door. I want to go back upstairs and pull the covers over my head. Pay no attention to the creepy, blood-drenched ghost at the foot of my bed. Then I remember what happened the night of the storm. I don’t want to piss them off.
I hesitantly skulk back to the basement door and crack it open. Someone must have left the light on, because it’s bright down there. Daylight bright. There’s also music blaring. And laughter. It sounds like a party.
I shut the door and the noise abruptly stops.
No light leaks from the crack under the door. No light is anywhere. I feel apart from myself, and it terrifies me. I whimper.
“Please let me go,” I whisper. “Please.”
But the only response is deafening silence.
WHEN I COME to my senses, I am again in my room, surrounded by sketches.
I try not to be a coward, even though I desperately want to run and hide. Going to Shannon’s room won’t be good enough. I’ll have to go live in Mrs. Franz’s house, or with Coop. Or I’ll hide in Raina’s closet. Her parents won’t even know I’m there. I just need to be somewhere that isn’t haunted.
I’m losing my nerve, so I decide to use the jump-in-the-pool method. I quickly gather the drawings, my charcoal-smudged fingers leaving prints on the paper, and try to put them into some order. It’s just like the drawing the night of the storm: each page is a puzzle piece. I dread what it will reveal this time.
After I match them up, I sit back, confused. I’ve drawn a room. It’s a living room, or a game room. It’s a nice little hangout area, with several worn, comfy couches and a TV. No death, no gore, no blood. It’s like a scene from a movie.
They’re all sitting together: Emily, Gigi, Kaitlyn, and Brandy. They look so similar, but I’ve drawn them to highlight their differences. Emily has a mischievous, crooked smile. Kaitlyn has a button nose and sports her sneaker necklace. Brandy is wearing her hair up in a dark ribbon to show off her long neck. Gigi, the only one whose picture wasn’t in the paper, has a small, thin white scar on her chin. They seem so happy.
Emily appears before me, and I scramble back. But she just sits hunched over, staring into my eyes.
“I want to help you,” I tell her. “But I need more.”
She nods once and reaches out a ghostly hand. I try not to squirm away. Her touch is like a cold breeze, and I close my eyes. Suddenly, I’m there. In my drawing, with the girls.
No, it’s clearer tha
n a drawing, but still fuzzy, like I’m looking through glasses that aren’t mine.
Kaitlyn is lounging with her long legs stretched out on one of the couches, while the other three girls are piled together on another one. Kaitlyn jumps up and heads to the small window. She lights a cigarette and blows smoke outside.
“You shouldn’t do that. We have a meet tomorrow,” Brandy tells her, moving to the unoccupied couch. Their voices are deep, distorted. I concentrate on understanding them.
“Are you going to tell your granny on me?” Kaitlyn asks. Things are clearer now.
“No, she already hates you,” Brandy replies, but with a huge smile, and Kaitlyn laughs.
“I’m devastated.”
“She asked me if you had a fake ID and if you ever went to bars. I said no.” Brandy’s voice sounds almost normal, just a tad too slow.
“So you lied?” Kaitlyn laughs again. Her laugh brings everything into focus. I’m there in the room with them. “She thinks I’m going to introduce you to a biker who will steal you away, knock you up, and get you hooked on meth.”
“Shut up. She did not say that,” Gigi insists.
“She doesn’t know that I’m the one who likes bikers.” Brandy flashes a wicked grin.
“Your grandma lives in her own little world, doesn’t she?” Emily asks. “Where does she think you are right now?”
“Math tutoring at school. I volunteer on Saturdays.”
“The school is closed on Saturdays,” Emily says. “Doesn’t she know that?”
“If her perfect darling Brandy told her that the sky was green and the grass was blue, she’d believe her,” Kaitlyn says, taking another long drag off her cigarette.
“Aren’t you worried you’ll get lung cancer?” Gigi asks.
“I wouldn’t get it until I’m old and ugly and useless,” Kaitlyn replies with a snort. “Then I might as well die anyway.”
“God, Kaitlyn, have a heart,” Brandy says. Gigi’s face has crumpled.
“Oh shit. I didn’t mean anything by it, G.” She stubs out the cigarette and pockets it. “Your mom was young and beautiful and it’s not fair she’s gone. I shouldn’t have said that. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s fine.”
“Yeah, you know what a bitch Kaitlyn is,” Emily says.
“You’re the bitch.” Kaitlyn throws a couch pillow at her. She turns back to Gigi. “But I am totally a bitch, so don’t listen to anything I say. Ever.”
Gigi smiles sadly.
“Wait, what about the rest of us?” Brandy asks. “We still have to listen to you?”
“Yeah, can we get a pass too?” Emily asks.
Kaitlyn stands up. “You are all bitches,” she announces. I can’t help myself; I bark out a laugh.
Their heads snap around to me, their eyes boring into my skin.
Then their forms begin to fade; they almost melt away, like paint running down a canvas.
I scramble back, away from Emily’s grasp.
She frowns. Then she disappears altogether.
I start at a creak in the doorway, but it’s just my mom.
“What are you doing up?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Really? Because it looks an awful lot like you’re drawing.”
I look down at the pages crumpled in my grip. “I was…”
She studies me. “What’s wrong?” my mom asks. “Did something happen?”
“Like what?”
“Anything.”
“No, Mom,” I hastily assure her. “Everything is fine.”
“Good. Clean up this mess. Then get some rest.”
She shuts my bedroom door securely, like that will keep me safe.
She doesn’t realize that the things that mean me harm can walk through doors.
WE FOUND A way to show her what happened
so long ago,
but it takes all our strength.
And we don’t have the power to focus on what we want.
The good times come much easier than the bad.
We show her what we can.
None of us wants to remember the unpleasantness.
But we must.
He is near.
So near.
And we are fading fast.
THE NEXT DAY, I grudgingly head down to the basement. It’s definitely where the girls were hanging out, even if it looks completely different now. Instead of comfy couches and a sound system, there are boxes stuffed with our Christmas decorations and random stuff my parents decided to shove down here to deal with later. I shuffle through my sketches, trying to get a sense of where things were back then. The laundry area is the same—I think it’s even the same washer and dryer. There’s just no curtain to divide it from the rest of the basement.
So why are they haunting my house? Did they all die in this basement, or are the girls just drawn here because it’s Kaitlyn’s house and Kaitlyn was the first? No, this must be where they were murdered. The girls spelled out Mr. Grant’s name, but how would he get down here without arousing suspicion? Doubt runs through me, but I push it away. Even if he’s not the killer, they clearly want me to know something about him.
I look at the drawings in my hand and shake my head. They could have been sisters. I remember what Mrs. Franz said about lots of people here being related, and I wonder if they were all distant cousins. Does that matter?
Something in one of the drawings catches my eye. I shaded a section of wall strangely, put it in shadow. It’s in the shape of a square, too perfect to be artistic license. I study it, trying to find its location. Its distance from the old dryer indicates that it’s where Shannon stacked a few boxes. I walk to the side and give them a shake; they’re not too heavy, so I move them out of the way.
It’s just a wall. But the wall in my sketch looks like concrete cinder blocks, and the real one is covered with wood paneling. I press it with my hand, working up and down the surface. About shoulder height there’s a slight give. Gingerly, I pick at the paneling. When it starts to give more, I try to pry it off with my fingers.
It’s not budging, so I pound on it with my fists. I stop myself and take a deep breath. I need something to use as a lever. I find our toolbox in the far corner and grab a hammer and some pliers. Luckily, like everything else in this house, the paneling has seen better days, so it comes off with only a little bit of effort.
Behind the paneling is a wooden door. A door with a missing lock, the hole where the hardware should be a gaping wound. I try to push it open, but it won’t budge. I stick my finger inside but feel only grainy filth.
Dropping the tools, I head upstairs, running outside and around the house. I gauge where the door is by counting the basement windows. I would have noticed if there were a door out here, but there’s nothing. I turn around and see that Mr. Grant’s house has stairs that lead down to his basement, with a little door at the bottom. The sun is setting, and his whole place is in shadow. I shiver and turn my back on his house to study mine.
I kick the dirt where I think the door should be with my foot, then, on a hunch, kneel down and dig with my hands. After a few inches, I hit hard stone. Stone steps. This was where the door opened. I stand and wipe the dirt on my shorts. It’s sandy and doesn’t stick, just falls down my legs to the ground.
If this was filled in after the girls died, then…I glance back at Mr. Grant’s house. How long has the lock been broken? How easy would it be for Mr. Grant to cross the few yards from basement to basement? He had access. Mr. Grant could have killed those girls. Or he could have seen who did.
He’s always watching.
As if he hears my thoughts, a curtain moves in one of the upstairs windows and I look up to find Mr. Grant staring down at me. I take one step to the side, then another. Trying not to look like I’
m running away, but desperately wanting to. I don’t want to let him know I’m on to him by acting too weird. I make it about three steps before I break into a run.
So much for subtlety. Better obvious than dead.
I KNOCK ON Coop’s back door tentatively, and then, when there’s no answer, I pound.
Coop opens the door, rumpled. His hair is sticking out in all directions, and his basketball shorts are wrinkled. He’s not wearing a shirt. I blush and look at the ground.
His eyes widen.
“Sorry…I…” It must be really early. I didn’t even think about the time.
“It’s okay. Come in….Just be quiet. My mom is sleeping.”
He leads me through the living room, past Chris, who is playing a video game. I whisper a loud hello, but he’s so wrapped up in his game he doesn’t hear me.
In his room, Coop grabs a shirt from his laundry basket on the floor. He opens his shades, and the early-morning sun streams in.
I gasp. “You didn’t tell me you liked to draw!”
He has hundreds of pictures, from landscapes to portraits to still-lifes. Every one is bursting with color. He doesn’t even use the proper colors: one apple is blue, while another is purple. His landscapes are full of yellow and gold and orange. They’re all bright and vibrant and full of life. His technique isn’t the best, but you can see his care.
“Wow. Now I know why Chris knew who Van Gogh was.”
“I was going to mention it, but then I saw how good you were. Mine are crappy in comparison.” He shrugs. “And then…with everything…it just didn’t seem important.”
I take a step closer to the wall, to his art. “This flower here would really pop if you shaded the petals with a lighter hand. That would fix the problem of everything looking flat. Have you taken classes?”
His face is red. “No.”
The Fade Page 12