Paranormal After Dark

by Rebecca Hamilton

  Owen never came. I waited until literally a minute before the bell rang, sitting at Hernando’s weathered gold feet, looking for him. I thought maybe he was running late again, maybe the moon was still in Capricorn, and he would come running up at the last minute, all disheveled and adorable. But he didn’t.

  Walking into homeroom, I started to wonder if anyone had seen him since he got into that black Sedan yesterday. Certainly he was okay. If he hadn’t come home last night, his mystery parents would have called the police or went looking for him or something. I’d have heard about it by now. They’d have called his phone.

  I wrapped my hand around his phone again. This time, I squeezed it tight. I was being stupid. He was fine. There was a reasonable explanation about everything, and he would tell me tonight, over chicken.

  School inched by. Not like the way it always did on Fridays, squeezing every ounce of torture out of the day before releasing you into the weekend. Today was even worse than that. My mind hopscotched between points of stress. Where was Owen? Why did he get into that black car? Why did he lie to me about it? And, assuming everything was okay, how was I going to tell him I was crazy about him?

  By the time school finally ended, I felt like limping home and collapsing in a heap on my bed. But I couldn’t. My mind wouldn’t let me off the hook that easily. I jumped in my Jetta and drove down to Abercorn. I needed to see Owen, to make sure he was okay.

  Dust blew up behind me as I pulled to a stop in front of Owen’s house. I pulled down the sun visor and checked myself out in the mirror. Just because I was showing up at Owen’s house unannounced and horning in on his privacy didn’t mean I couldn’t look presentable doing it.

  I straightened my hair up, wiped my face with a moist towelette, and took a hit of my inhaler. I was used to the breathlessness that came with being around Owen, and I was ready to combat it.

  Owen’s house was one of the newer ones in Crestview. A two story white thing with blue shutters and a front porch, I realized that, even though I had sat out in front of this place a thousand times, I had never really looked at it. I guess I was always just too captivated by Owen. Even in the early days, before I was so into him that it was hard to breathe, there was something about him.

  I could never take my eyes off him. And it wasn’t just that he was cute. Even though he was cute. Really cute. But so were a lot of guys. For a town that didn’t even have a post office, Crestview had no shortage of man meat. Even Casper, who was like my brother, had a sort of ginger-hued ruffled charm about him.

  Had I managed to pull my gaze off Owen even one of those times and checked out his house, I would have noticed…absolutely nothing.

  There was nothing about the house that stood out at all. In Chicago, that would have been normal. Back home, there was nothing but row after row of identical looking apartments. But here in Crestview, where people actually had things like front yards, people liked to use the space to express themselves.

  Some people put up political signs (always Republican) out by the road. Others stuck religious statues (mostly the Virgin Mary) by the front door. Mrs. Ratcliffe cut her bushes to look like swans. Even my mom who, in Chicago, barely took the time make her bed, let alone fancy up the apartment, decorated our yard a little.

  Sure, they were those stupid cardboard cutouts; a little boy peeing the horrified little girl who catches him, but Mom seemed to think they were cute. And at least she was trying. Which was more than I could say for Owen’s family.

  The yard, the porch- all of it was empty. Other than Owen’s car (which must have gotten that fuel pump ‘cause sitting in the driveway), there was no evidence that anyone lived here at all. Maybe that wasn’t so weird though. Owen’s parents did work constantly. Maybe they didn’t have time for stuff like that. Yeah. That was it. It had to be. I was just letting Casper’s ridiculousness get the better of me.

  I got out of my car, holding Owen’s phone out in front of me like an explanation. If he saw me, if he came running out the front door like always, I would just tell him I was coming to return it. Then, of course, I would linger around and be my relatively irresistible self. Totally. Awesome. Plan.

  I waltzed up to the front door without incident and knocked on the door. There was no answer. I knocked again. Again, nothing. He must have been gone. Maybe there was some meathead football meeting he was obligated to go to.

  Or maybe he’s locked inside the trunk of some black Sedan death trap.

  I was just about to leave; I’d give him his phone back when I saw him tonight, when the door opened. It opened slowly, like someone had pushed it but, there was nobody on the other side. Slowly, I stuck my head through the doorway. There was no one in there at all.

  “Owen?” I yelled into the living room. “Owen, are you here?”

  If he was, he didn’t answer.

  “Owen, I’ve got your phone.”

  I looked into the house, down at the cherry wood floor. This was it; Owen’s house, and it was open. I could just walk right in. I should. I had his phone. I could just go upstairs and put it in his bedroom.

  Owen’s bedroom.

  I thought about the little girl in my mother’s cardboard cutout. I bet she wasn’t so horrified after all.

  “Owen,” I pushed in. “Owen, are you here?”

  The house had a fresh smell to it; like bleach and lemon cleaner. The doorway led into a hall which, in turn, opened up to what I assumed was the living room. I had to assume, because it was totally empty. Like the yard outside and the front porch, the main room of Owen’s house was completely barren. No television, no couch, no chairs; nothing.

  Maybe they didn’t use that room though. There were only three of them; maybe they didn’t need all the room. I walked through the room and into a tiled kitchen. Though there were appliances, they were all wrapped up. The stove, the dishwasher, even the sink were wrapped in clear shipping paper, as though they had been delivered but never used.

  Maybe they don’t cook, or do dishes…or wash things.

  From the kitchen I went upstairs. There were three rooms on the top floor. Surely one of them was Owen’s room. I opened the doors, but one after one, the rooms turned out to be empty. There was nothing, not even a bed.

  What was going on? I mean, they had to sleep.

  I walked back to the stairs. Halfway down, I heard the front door, which I must have left open, slam shut. An alarm sounded, the word ‘Intruder’ echoing through the house.

  I ran down the stairs as fast as I could, yelling.

  “I’m sorry! I was just trying to bring you your phone!”

  But Owen wasn’t there. Neither were his parents. No one was in the house. So, what set off the alarm? I didn’t have time to figure it out.

  ‘Intruder’ screamed into my ears. With an alarm system like this, it couldn’t be long before the police showed up to check it out. The last thing I needed was Owen thinking I had broken into his house. I could see the conversation now. I’d be in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs screaming, “It’s not breaking in. The door opened up on its own.”

  I pulled at the door. It wouldn’t budge. I was stuck in here and the police would be here any second. The moon must have been in Capricorn for me too.

  ‘Intruder!’ It screamed again.

  “Yeah, I get it,” I yelled, like the security system could hear me. I pounded on the door and pulled again. It was no use. It wasn’t budging.

  ‘Intruder! Intruder!’

  I ran out of the living room and through the kitchen. Maybe there was a back door. I found it pretty quickly and, luckily enough, when I flipped the latch and pulled, it opened.

  By the time I got home, I figured my little break in would be the talk of the town. After all, when Mrs. Gooslby’s cat got stuck on her roof, people talked about it for days. It was that kind of place.

  Mom was still at work when I got there, so I sat in my room and waited for the phone to ring or the cops to come knocking on the door. It’s not like I was s
tealthy or anything. I basically ran out of Owen’s house like a scared chicken, so it probably wouldn’t be too hard to follow the breadcrumbs back here.

  And what would I do when they got there?

  I just wanted to get a look at his bedroom. I promise I didn’t steal anything. Not that there was anything to steal.

  I laughed out loud, realizing I was more afraid of Owen finding out I was in his house than I was of any legal trouble. I held his phone in my hand, balancing it in my palm. Just having it for a few hours had given me so many questions. Why did Owen have those pictures of me? What was he doing in that black Sedan, the one that came by Mrs. Goolsby’s house every night? Why was his own house completely empty?

  As I was thinking about all those things; wondering how I would bring them up when Owen came over for dinner, the phone rang. I jerked; dropping it.It fell to the floor face up. I shouldn’t have been so surprised. It was a phone, after all. But, in the twenty or so hours that I’d had it, this was the first call I had gotten. Owen hadn’t even called to find out where it was.

  I looked down. The screen read those horrible words, the words I knew would come when I heard it ring; Merrin Calling. I felt sick, not that I should have. Long distance or not, she was his girlfriend. It would only make sense that she would call him.

  I reached down and scooped it up. I had thought so much about this girl; about what kind of person Owen would fall for. It occurred to me then that I knew absolutely nothing about her. I didn’t know what she looked like, what kind of music she liked. I didn’t know if she was right handed or left handed. I had spent so much time building this girl up in my head, painting her as this perfect blond beach girl, that being faced with her, even on the phone, put knots in my stomach.

  I wondered if she knew about me; about the pictures on Owen’s phone, about the lack of pictures of her. I wondered if she could answer the questions I had about Owen. But most of all, I wondered if she was anything like me. The idea that Owen would fall for someone like me, someone like me who he met first, was exhilarating and sickening all at the same time.

  I had to know, if only to put it behind me. I put the phone to my ear and answered.

  “Hello.”

  There was no answer.

  “Look. Um, I’m Cresta. I don’t know if Owen’s told you anything about me, but I’m his-we’re friends. He left his phone in my car. That’s all.”

  Why was I doing that; explaining myself? If Merrin thought some girl was answering her boyfriend’s phone-

  No. I didn’t want to cause trouble, at least not that way. If Owen was going to like me, if he was going to choose me, I wanted him to do it honestly, and I wanted to be honest with her.

  “Merrin, here’s the thing. Owen and I are just friends.”

  I paused for a second, gathering my thoughts. She didn’t answer.

  “But I don’t want to be just friends. And I know that’s a bitchy thing to say, because you’re all the way on the other side of the country and I’m here with your guy, but it is what it is.”

  My hand twisted around my locket, wishing I had my steering wheel to pick.

  “I don’t wanna be that girl. You know, that girl, but I want to be real with you. I’m about to tell Owen how I feel and I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but I think he might feel the same way abvout me.”

  I took a shaky breath and reached for my inhaler.

  “Merrin, did you hear me?”

  I took a whiff.

  “Merrin?”

  Nothing. This girl was a wall. She hadn’t said word one since the minute I picked up the phone.

  “Mer-“

  A tone, like music, rang out on the other end of the phone. A long sound, like somebody was holding down a piano key. Then, while it was still going on, another tone sounded on top of it. Then another, and another. Soon I was listening to a symphony; chords layered over each other. It was like a song, only there was no melody. There was no deviation in the noise. They were different chords; probably Fs, Cs, and Ds. The piano was never my strong suit. Whatever it was though, wasn’t meant to be pleasing.

  I pulled my ear away from the receiver as the noise got louder.

  “Merrin?” I asked again. “Are you trying to send a fax or something?”

  Do people even send faxes anymore?

  The noise only grew. I scoffed and hung up. Was that her answer? Was she really that childish? Maybe not. Maybe she didn’t hear me at all. Phone service was nearly nonexistent in Crestview. Maybe what I heard was feedback from a dropped call or something.

  I huffed, my hand still on my locket. I blew a few strands of blond hair out of my eyes, realizing why I had told Merrin all that stuff, probably why I answered her in the first place. I wanted her to know everything, and not just because I wanted to be honest. Somewhere deep inside I knew that if Merrin knew then Owen would have to next. There would be no way around it. Merrin would force my hand and

  I wouldn’t have the luxury of chickening out anymore. I wanted to have no choice. I wanted that safety net gone. Even with all the questions I had about him, I still wanted Owen to know how I felt.

  I sighed and lay back in bed. He would be here soon enough, and I would get my chance. My chance and my answers.

  I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 5

  The Goolsby Intervention

  SEVEN. IT WAS always seven.

  I woke with a start; a loud ringing in my ears. The sun, streaming low through my window, told me it was later evening, probably six or seven. I sat up, recognizing the ring as our smoke alarm.

  Mom was back.

  “What did you do?” I asked, halfway down the stairs. She was fanning smoke away from our open stove. It filled the kitchen and left her in a gray tinted haze. She had an apron on, which might as well have been a top hat and rhinestone brazier for as out of place as she looked in it. On her hands, feverishly swiping at the smoke, were over mitts; another first.

  “Don’t start that! The only reason I’m doing this is to impress your little boyfriend.” She said through coughs. Having forced a temporary break in the smoke, she reached into the stove and pulled out a pan. On it, were three small black lumps that context clues told me had probably been chicken at one point.

  “Well that’s sure to do it,” I said. A barrage of smells; smoke, chicken, and maybe garlic filled the air as I made my way into the kitchen.

  “No,” Mom yelled and waved me away. “Your asthma. Stay back.”

  “My asthma’s fine,” I ignored her, but rushed to open a window anyway. It was bad enough that the chickens were ruined. I didn’t need Owen to find me gasping for breath on the floor beside them.

  “Look at this. It’s ruined,” I said, pushing at the charcoal lumps with a nearby mixing spoon.

  “What did you expect?” Mom pulled the apron off and pushed down on her brown curly hair, which had whirled up into knots as she battled the smoke.

  I threw the spoon down and hopped onto the counter, catching the fresh air as it came through the window. “I expected the architect of yesterday’s breakfast masterpiece to know what she was doing.”

  She rolled her eyes and tossed the charcoal chicken lumps into the trash can. They hit with a leaden thud that made me glad we weren’t eating them. “That was a fluke. I was- yesterday was a special day for me, and I wanted to do something special.”

  I crinkled my eyebrows, confused. “What was so special about it?”

  Her eyes traced the counter where the chicken used to be, like she was searching for something. “Something from before you were born. It doesn’t matter.” She shook her head, probably trying to shake away whatever thought she was wrestling with. “What does matter is finding something to feed your little boyfriend. You know, now that the chickens are a thing of the past.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I hopped down from the counter. By now, enough of the smoke had left that I didn’t need to sit by the window.

 
“And why is that? Because I know you’d like him to be.” Her left eyebrow arched and a mischievous grin spread across her face. She was looking at me like she had found out my little secret, and she was right. But that didn’t mean I had to let her know it.

  “Please. That’s just whatever.”

  “Uh huh,” she shook her head smiling. “I know what a girl in love looks like Cress. I used to be one.”

  I watched her there, smiling and rubbing circles into the counter. There was a weight in her smile, gravity to her words:

  ‘Used to’

  The man she loved was gone. Maybe the only man she had ever loved, my father, had left and he was never coming back. Sure, she could move on. Maybe the idea of her daughter being in love could help her do that. But he would always be there; a ghost in the back of her mind, in the back of both our minds.

  “I’m going to tell him how I feel,” I said, fingering my locket and letting go of pretense. “Tonight. That’s what all of this is supposed to be about.”

  “Oh.” Mom’s face sort of fell and her eyes shot to the trash can. “Now I feel really bad about the chicken.”

  She turned around and started going through the cabinets. “ There has to be something up here .” Of course, she knew better than that. Mom never cooked. I never cooked. Unless Owen wanted a TV dinner with a side of Pringles there probably wasn’t much up there we could work with. Still, there was something else I was more concerned with.

  “Mom, what do you know about cues?”

  She turned to me, a can of Chef Boyardee in her hand. I read the words ‘extra chunky’ as she sat it down. Classy.

  “What are you talking about?”

  I twisted the locket around so that the loose part of the necklace wrapped around my fingers

  “Dr. Conyers said that people are constantly giving off cues, like clues about how they feel or what they think and stuff. She said that it was possible that I was subconsciously picking them up from Owen.”