Jade looked up at me, tears shimmering in her eyes. “He had it worse than me. At least Dad didn't yell and beat me in front of people.”
I gulped. That was horrible—her story and Brett’s. My life, even with the stupid AFTD was better than a lot of people. I didn't want to feel bad for Brett. He was such a raging dickhead, but I could see why he acted the way he did. Carson was still a mystery, though. He had everything going for him. It came down to choice. Jade had a similar background to Brett, and she wasn't acting like a jerk.
Jade answered almost as if I had spoken out loud—duh... empath. “His mom never did anything to stop it. At least my mom is dead. I just had the one parent. When things got really bad”—she shuddered—“I would escape to Andrea's.”
“Okay, so you, like, feel sorry for Brett?”
“Kinda. I hate that he's mean to me. But at the bus stop, the other kids didn't know what to do to help him. His dad was über-scary, and their families were normal.” She smiled. “Well, more normal. Anyway, I knew what it felt like, how embarrassing it was to have a parent that out of control, the feeling of slippage, like you're hangin' on to the edge of the cliff and some maniac has a hold of the rope and you have to hang on and hope they don't let go. I just wanted him to know that I was hangin' on to his rope, too. That the maniac wasn't the only one that had a hold of it. So we were friends. Then, for some reason, last year when we started middle school”—she gestured back in the direction of school—“he started acting like he didn't know me.” She shrugged. “I just sorta gave up. He and Carson became friends, and that was the end of that.”
We sat for a moment, and I chewed on what she'd told me.
“I want you to come on Sunday,” I said.
“I don't know. What if Carson and Brett get really mad and something bad happens? I don't like Brett getting it. It feels wrong. If it backfires, they'll be more determined to make sure the right adults find out what you can do.”
“Speaking of that, how did you know… about me?”
She started wringing her hands a little.
“When you touched me, I just got a really strong... impression of… concern and... love.” She glanced up at me, probably to see if I was offended by the L-word.
I couldn't say I loved her yet, but I cared. Maybe there wasn't much of a difference between the two.
“Anyone can guesstimate,” she said, “but I know. People can't lie to me. I know who likes me and who doesn't. And that's not so great, believe me. But what can I do? It is what it is.”
I felt the same way.
“That still doesn't explain how you know that I'm AFTD.”
“Well, each person has a 'flavor,' like ice cream,” she perked up at the analogy, “So there are paranormal flavors, and I started to recognize the differences, sometimes before the kids even know what they're going to have. Mostly, I just try to not touch anyone. I really don't want to know.”
“Who else is AFTD?” I was stunned. I thought I was the only one for some reason. Like an island in and endless sea.
“That girl in PE—Tiffany Weller.” Jade's voice modulation rose, do you know her?
I thought about the name, and then the face came to me.
I nodded.
Jade said, “About a month ago, she was sitting outside the school, crying. I didn’t really know her, but I asked her what was wrong. She pointed at a dead bird just a few feet away.
She had snot and tears all over her face, and she said something, but I couldn’t hear because was talking so soft. So I leaned in real close, and she said, ‘It whispers.’ I asked her what whispered. 'Death,' she said, 'death whispers.''' Jade shook her head. “It was so creepy that I sorta backed away real quick, but I lost my footing, and my hand touched her back.” She hung her head.
I didn't push her for more, letting the silence imprison the moment.
The sun began to sink, a hot crimson ball on fire balanced between the sky and the horizon. Seconds ticked by.
“I felt it all then,” Jade said. “There was this echo. I could feel Tiffany's feelings of sadness and loss, but I could also feel, real faint, the bird's images, too.” She shuddered again then looked at me. “You're the same, Caleb. But more... you're so much more. With you, it's like static noise. There are so many voices.”
The orb began to drown in the horizon, painting the sky blood red. The wash of color expanded like arms of light, reaching out for an embrace. I looked down at Jade and understood that she was horrified by what she could feel was going on with me, with everyone. It was something I always had to keep the iron fist of control over. Otherwise, it was simple misery.
The dead spoke. They spoke to me all the time.
CHAPTER 11
Mom pounced on me the minute I walked through the door. I chucked my backpack on the chair and she gave me the mom-glare. I sighed, trudging back out to the foyer and hung it up on a tarnished brass hook. I followed my nose to the kitchen, my stomach giving an appreciative roar.
Mom spoke the dreaded sentence: “You have to eat supper first.”
That never failed to put me in a crappy mood. She knew that I could probably polish off the whole loaf of banana bread and still eat suck down supper.
I glanced over to the cook top where the last of the chicken was frying up. Three pieces of her chicken, plus mashed potatoes, and I'd still have room for dessert.
Mom was eying me critically.
“What?” I asked.
“Your eyeballs are taller.” Mom liked to point out that I’d grown by saying that, than whatever random day she had noticed before. Whatever, I decided to play along. After all, I was riding the happy wave of having been in the Presence of Jade.
“Definitely. Let's go measure you.”
“Mom, don't you have some potatoes to mash or something?”
She gave me another death glare, so I stalked over to the bathroom door. On the casing that surrounded the door were a lot of horizontal pencil marks cataloging my growth, what little there was of it.
I stood ramrod straight and put my heels against the molding, holding my shoulders back. Mom put a ruler on my head and made the new mark. A low whistle escaped her, and I turned around to look.
Unbelievably, there was a whole bunch more space between the new mark and the last mark made only three months ago. I hadn't noticed at all. Mom measured the distance with a tape measure.
“Two inches, Caleb. I knew it.” She pumped her fist, which seemed eerily like Jonesy.
“So how tall does that make me?”
“Five-six.”
Mom looked down at me, but not by much. We grinned at each other until our faces hurt.
Dad walked in, and Mom went back to the frying pan.
“What's going on here?” Dad asked.
“Oh, nothing much,” Mom flung over her shoulder. “But Caleb is two inches taller.”
“Really?” Dad drawled. “It's just a matter of time before you're all grown up.” He opened his pulse-top carrier and extracted a small orange bottle—the cerebral inhibitor.
Dad gave the bottle a little shake, the cargo rattling. Mom slid the glass pan of chicken into the oven. I sat down at the kitchen table, its surface tangerine from the setting sun.
Dad loosened his tie and passed the bottle to me. The label read: Take one tablet in the morning after food with one full glass of water.
I turned it around in my hand. The other side warned: May cause disorientation, slurred speech, listlessness, or dizziness.
“Dad, I won't be able to do well on the AP tests. I'm gonna be a moron.”
Mom gave me the glare, again. She hated the use of “bigotry” names. She thinks the handicapped need to not be identified in a negative way. Overweight people and anyone looked down on all fell under Mom's “treat equally” category, which meant everyone in the world.
Dad glanced at Mom then rushed on when she grunted her annoyance. “No, I can give you a half dose, Caleb.”
Dad held out his hand.
I passed the bottle back.
Mom sat at the table. “Kyle, are you sure that this stuff won't permanently harm him?”
Dad rolled his eyes.
“No. Even buying us some time to figure this thing out would not be sufficient reason for taking chances with Caleb’s mind.”
Mom seemed to decide something. “Good.”
Mucho-boring. “So let's talk about the dog,” I said.
Mom smiled. “We've thought about it and decided that after this whole mess is over, we will try to transition the dog into our family.”
A large breath of air that I hadn't realized I was holding blew out of me like a deflated balloon.
Dad nodded.
“Your mom found out where the dog is being held, and she went to see him.”
Wow! There had always been a No Pets rule in our house. But they were not only going to let me have the dog, Mom had actually gone to visit him.
I grinned at her. “Mom, you didn't tell me.”
“I know, but there's been a lot going on. It just seemed you didn't need another thing to worry about. And your unusual… connection with the dog seemed a touchstone of comfort for you.”
“Where is he?”
“He's at the King County Animal Sanctuary,” she said.
I slumped in my seat. Good. They had a no-kill policy. I allowed a small amount of my control to loosen, and a wave of confused emotions washed over me.
Wow. The dog's emotions and impressions were all over the place. Above all, he knew on some level that I was in his head, and that gave him a sense of peace. He also had a memory of another boy, but the image was faded, like a shirt washed too many times. I closed the small link.
I didn't know if I was tired from the effort of not releasing all that pressing, eager energy that was always there, or if just allowing a small amount had taken more control than I had.
My parents were leaning toward me with identical expressions of concern.
I smiled at them. “I'm okay.”
Dad sat back. “What was that?
“That whole... fugue thing?”
Dad frowned. “Oh, is that what it seemed like?”
Mom nodded. “Yes, you didn't respond when I snapped my fingers right in front of your face.”
I had been aware of my parents, but I had been utterly engaged with the dog.
“I can feel the dog if I… let some of it go, just a little.”
“And, Caleb, that's it. That is exactly what I wish to explore,” Dad said.
I thought he'd say something like that.
“I know you guys want to know how I do it. But there is really no way to explain it. I mean, the first few times it was a complete accident. It just happened. Now, I'm trying to control it, at least all the whispering and junk.”
“Did the Parker kid have these same manifestations?”
“Same,” I replied.
Dad palmed his chin.
Mom said, “I want to peruse those papers that John brought over. Your father has already done some independent research, uncovering some possibilities. But people are so unpredictably unique that there are always new abilities with each individual. We're wondering what will be in store for you.”
“Well, Dad and I have discussed the possibilities,” I said.
Mom's eyebrows shot up. “So what's the consensus, fellas?”
“We think,” Dad said, “that Caleb may be able to control hauntings as his skill set becomes more advanced.”
The minutes ticked by while Dad and I discussed the potential of my undead skills. Mom beat the taters into submission until they were smooth, white mountain peaks.
The discussion finally turned to Jade and I confessed she felt uncomfortable with my parents knowing her family situation.
Mom had it down. “She is a separate person and will be treated as such. No one chooses who they are born to.”
I plowed through the Mount Rainer of mashed potatoes mom put in front of me, eating suddenly becoming more important than the awkward girlfriend discussion.
After dinner, I jogged up to what the Js referred to as the Bat Cave. My room was tucked under the eaves of the half story of the upper floor in a bowling alley of space. I lay on my bed and started reading from where I’d left off.
We were unaware of the ramifications of this particular ability. Parker's abilities were the first five-point AFTD abilities we'd seen since the inception of the inoculations in 2015. Now, we have seen many AFTD children manifest one of the five commonly known characteristics or “points” for this category.
“Dr. Daniels, please explain to this readership exactly what Affinity for the Dead means? Is there more to it than just communication?”
“Yes, Tim. The five sub-categories for AFTD are: cadaver manipulation, hauntings, medium communication, murder victim location, and death impressions. The Parker child manifested all five categories. There has not been another case that encompassed all five.”
“Besides having all five categories, is there anything else that makes Parker special?” Anderson asked.
“Yes, Parker is an extraordinarily rare case. Since his assimilation into the military, we have not been able to study his abilities further, which is a national tragedy. He works in a capacity that has not been explained and is under a top-secret umbrella that even the scientific community cannot breach.”
“Why can't we all know what Parker is up to? Don't we have a right to know?”
“I am not at liberty to answer that. However, I can say that if another were to manifest like Parker, he or she would be a very interesting commodity for certain groups.”
“Which groups?”
“Any group who thinks raising cadavers would be politically advantageous.”
I put the papers down and rubbed my eyes. Reading that stuff had given me the creeps.
I got up and walked over to my desk. Plunking down on my chair, I pressed my thumb onto the pad.
Hello, Caleb Hart... accessing...
I thought: subject; murder, AFTD-related.
The display lit up with news and one article struck as soon as I saw it; although it was older:
Twenty-year old AFTD Policewoman Bobbi Gale “Discovers” Murder Victim Leading to the Arrest of Pierce Dickson
Bobbi Gale, a 20-year-old policewoman, solved a murder by locating the victim’s body.
After testing as a two-point in the AFTD category, Ms. Gale excelled in the special school she attended and upon graduation, she was given a position in the police department of her choice.
This trend of using people in important capacities such as law-enforcement cannot be a bad one, considering that paranormal ability is not just given to people driven to do the right thing. Ms. Gale stated, “There are criminals out there with abilities, too. They are now our most powerful criminals, using all their talents for evil.”
Wow! I hadn't considered what happened if someone bad—like Carson—had paranormal skills. I shuddered, thinking about the trouble that assclown could make.
When asked how she was able to find these criminals, Ms. Gale responded, “It’s a difficult ability to quantify, but I'd have to say it's the dead... they speak to me. It seems that when someone dies violently, he or she leaves a footprint, an impression. I follow that trail, and sometimes, I get lucky and can put it all together.”
When Gale was asked if she was satisfied with her work, she responded with an emphatic yes, but added that she was “glad that she didn't have all the categories of AFTD.”
When asked why, she said that would be “more than she wanted to deal with.”
I pressed my thumb on the pad and thought, writing.
A blank page appeared on my monitor, which hung above my desk. I drummed my fingers on the desk. My least favorite homework was writing. History was second period, and I needed to do a synopsis paragraph per day. Mr. Peterson was cool, but current event stuff sucked. Who cared what was happening, seriously? I wasn't into being informed.
I sa
t thinking about what to write in my paragraph, struggling with the spelling, as usual. My desk had a built in thumb pad so I just laid my thumb on it and thought: this sucks ass guffaws
The phrase lit up on the screen and I howled, slapping my knee, comic relief. I finally got a grip and thought: erase phrase. I tapped my fingers again and thought:
Copy and Paste header.
The article header lit up.
I amended, And include author.
Anderson's name glowed on the screen.
This past event is about a girl cop who has the paranormal ability AFTD (Affinity for the Dead). This ability usually means that somebody can communicate with the dead. She uses her ability to find murderers.
She says that she can hear impressions from people who've died, and that if they were murdered, she can feel a trail of their emotions. Sounds like this is damn handy.
I snickered. Cool. Erase profanity.
“Damn” disappeared.
Pulse to Mr. William “Billy” Peterson, history teacher at Kent Middle School.
I pressed my thumb on the pad very lightly—Mom would kill me if I put my thumb through another pad— and thought, Sleep.
The screen went dark except for the green clock numbers glowing in the lower right corner.
My pulse was stuffed in my back pocket and digging into my ass. I whipped it out and pressed the pad. The pads for the pulse-cells were a lot tougher to wreck. I thought, John Terran.
Green letters appeared: Initializing.
John Terran: Hey, butt-wipe! Finally got around to pulsing. Busy with Jade?
Caleb: No, numb-nuts. If you must know, I just finished my PE.
John Terran: Past Event? Yeah, I figured you'd finally get your butt kicked and do homework.
Caleb: Are you ever gonna edit your name to just your first like everybody else so I don't have to see your whole name every line?
The Death Series, Books 1-3 (Dark Dystopian Paranormal Romance): Death Whispers, Death Speaks, and Death Inception Page 8