Dust to Dust

by Melissa Walker

  “You’re back from work early,” I say, popping my head in.

  “I took a mental health day,” he says. “I have to go to DC tomorrow to give a talk—it’s a last-minute fill-in. But I wanted to make sure you’re okay with that.”

  “I’ve stayed home alone for one night before.”

  “I know. But not since . . .”

  “The coma. Right.” I smile at him. “I’m fine, really.”

  “Okay, I’ll be gone less than a day.” Dad pats the cushion beside him. “I’ve been looking through this old album.”

  I recognize the book instantly. It was a secret album he kept, one that he didn’t show me. I only saw it when I was haunting him from the other side, when I was with Thatcher trying to help my father heal.

  I curl up next to him on the couch.

  As he flips the pages open now, I see my family—me and Mama, Mama and Daddy, the three of us all together. There’s a photo of me and Carson, both front-toothless on a swing set, and even a picture of me and Nick from last year, all dressed up in front of the Fishers’ fireplace, right before we went to the winter formal.

  “How come you never showed me these before?” I ask.

  “Oh, you know,” he says, smiling. “I guess I was just embarrassed about my sentimental side, or I thought you’d think I was holding on to the past too much or something.”

  “I would never think that,” I tell him. “You’re the strongest man I know.”

  I lower my face, feeling kind of cheesy for saying that, but he reaches out and turns my chin up to him, so he can look me in the eye. Now he speaks clearly, deliberately. “You’re healing, you’re living your life again, you’re not letting what happened this summer get you down—or even slow you down, far as I can tell.” He pauses. “I’m proud of you,” he adds.

  I start to tear up, and my father pulls me closer. He puts his arm around my shoulder, and I lean into him, smelling his clean detergent smell, breathing in the safety and security of home. It’s the two of us on the couch, missing Mama, as we’ve been missing her for years now.

  But when I close my eyes, I know she is always with us.

  “Your mama knew how to express herself; she knew exactly how to make everyone around her feel loved. I feel like she’s still teaching me how, through you. As long as you’re here and we’re together, Callie May, she is, too.”

  And then, like a puzzle piece falling into place, I finally understand why she couldn’t haunt me the way she wanted to. . . . I was her death spot, a place where spirits are not supposed to return. So she visited Carson instead. She tried to bring peace through my best friend. Mama did her best for me and Daddy. What else could I ask of her?

  I meet Carson in her driveway the next morning. “Let’s go,” she says. “Nick and Dylan are on their way to Eli’s.”

  We’re heading toward our friend’s house, banking on his parents being at work and Eli being at school. I know I’ll get in trouble for skipping again if my father finds out, but this is urgent. Like, life-or-death urgent. Besides, I hid my dad’s cell last night, so he’ll probably have to call me from the landline and tell me it’s missing. I felt a little guilty being sneaky like that, but desperate times call for drastic measures.

  Carson parks on the street a few doors down, behind Nick. He drove his parents’ van, I notice, as we walk up to greet the boys.

  “Those are really awesome,” says Dylan. He’s admiring the red and yellow kayaks strapped to the top of the van.

  “Did you guys carpool?” I ask them.

  “It was on the way,” says Nick. “Mom let me take the van because I told her the soccer team had a field trip today and needed more vehicles. School might call her, but I’ll deal with that later.”

  “Good thought,” I say. “We can all drive together from here.”

  “It was Carson’s idea.” Dylan smiles at her adoringly, and I make a note that when this is all over I need to talk to Carson about how perfect Dylan is for her. When I look over, though, I see that she’s noticing his grin, and returning it with one of her own.

  “You probably should’ve taken the kayaks off the roof,” I say to Nick. “Gas burners.”

  “My dad’s going camping this weekend. He wanted them ready.”

  I shrug. “Well, I’m glad we have a big car anyway.”

  When we get up to the porch, there’s a bright blue snail-shaped planter in the front filled with red geraniums. Nick gently tilts it back and pulls out a silver key.

  “Really?” I say.

  “So obvious,” mutters Carson.

  “Don’t look a gift snail in the mouth,” says Dylan. He stands behind Nick, who steps in and calls out, “Hello?” just in case.

  No response. We all head inside.

  Eli’s room is easy to spot on the long hallway. There’s a dirty-laundry trail spilling out of the door, which is covered with World Cup athlete posters. I peek inside to see his bed isn’t made and there’s a half-empty bottle of Gatorade on the nightstand.

  “Where would he put the ring?” I wonder aloud, as we all crowd in.

  Dylan takes in a breath. “He doesn’t seem to be the most thoughtful person in the world, does he? I bet if it is here, it’s under a pile somewhere. . . .”

  Just then, we hear the door creak open and we all freeze. Keys are thrown onto a table, steps start coming down the hallway.

  “Shiiiit,” whispers Nick. He stands in front of the rest of us as Eli walks into his room, totally startled.

  “What the hell are y’all doing here?”

  “Hey, man,” says Nick, cool as a cucumber. “No school today?”

  “I’m off for the week. I’m . . . resting,” says Eli. Then he seems to remember our situation. “Hey, why am I explaining myself to you? You’re the ones in my house.”

  I step forward from behind Nick.

  “Eli, the other day in the hallway—”

  “Y’all need to get out of here before I call the cops.” Eli’s words are strong, but at the sight of me he looks shaken.

  Carson goes up to him and links her arms through his. “Eli, we’re looking for a ring,” says Carson. “Callie was wearing it around her neck when you had your . . . scuffle.”

  “You already asked me about that,” says Eli, turning to me. “I told you I don’t have it.”

  He shakes off Carson’s arm and says again, “I’m seriously gonna call the cops if you don’t leave.”

  “I know about the night by the bonfire at Folly Beach, Eli,” I say, and it’s as if the room stills. “When you heard the ghost girl’s voice, and Brian and Hunter didn’t believe you.”

  I was with Reena that day, and we stumbled upon Eli and the others on a summer Saturday night, drinking by the fire pit. Reena had some fun with Eli, knocking a beer from his hand, pulling a cigarette from his mouth, whispering in his ear. Eli was truly freaked out—I know because I saw him run through the woods to escape what was happening.

  Eli’s eyes are big and round. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but it’s clear that he does.

  And then, suddenly, a gust of wind passes through the room and Eli’s bedroom door slams shut.

  Our eyes all flick over to the tightly closed windows.

  “Weird,” says Nick with a smile. I wink at him. It’s Thatcher, willing to bend some rules to help us right now.

  “Are you sure you don’t have it?” I ask Eli again. “Maybe if you think really hard you’ll remember something you had no idea you forgot.”

  “You sound crazy,” he says. “You know that, right?”

  And then the bulb of his ceiling light shatters above us, showering the floor with pieces of glass.

  Eli jumps, but the rest of us stay calm.

  “We’re not crazy. And we’re not the only ones who want to know where the ring is,” says Dylan. “As you can see, we have powerful friends.”

  “Dead-people friends, actually,” Carson says, crossing her arms over her chest.
/>   “I really have no idea,” says Eli, his voice trembling now. I glance over at his bed and see a stuffed teddy bear there, one he maybe still sleeps with. I feel a pang of guilt that we’re here, scaring him.

  “Okay, enough,” I say. “He really doesn’t know. We should go.”

  We start to file out of Eli’s room, but he follows us to the front door. “Are y’all just gonna leave me here?”

  “It’s your house,” Nick says.

  “But I’m obviously not alone!” He’s pretty freaked out, not that any of us can blame him.

  The rest of us look at one another, the same question in our eyes. Eli is as involved in this as any of us. He’s been possessed; he’s in mortal danger. He deserves to know what’s happening, even if he can be a jerk sometimes.

  We all seem to understand this in an instant, almost like we’re sharing thoughts for a moment. At once, everyone nods.

  And then Dylan turns to Eli and says, “Come with us.”

  Leo Cutler’s family still lives in the same place where he grew up, according to Mr. Internet, and when we check the address against Dylan’s vortex map, it seems like it’s in a safe zone. We looked up Reena’s old address, too, just in case, but it seems like her family has moved away because the house she lived in has been sold twice since her death.

  As we drive to Leo’s, I tell Eli everything. Any normal person would never believe what we recount, but Eli has experienced things for himself—at the bonfire at Folly Beach, on the train tracks during his “dodge,” in the hallway just this week, and now at his own house. I almost feel sorry for him, but at the same time I’m glad he’s here with us. He’s been such a part of this, almost from the beginning.

  Eli folds his arms tightly across his chest as he listens to me talk, but he doesn’t say a word in response. When I’m done, Carson waves her hand in front of his face, but his eyes just keep staring forward. I see something in his expression, though . . . a spark of understanding.

  “I know it’s hard to take in, Eli,” I say. “But I can see that you know that what I’m telling you is true. And you’re involved, too.”

  He nods but doesn’t talk yet.

  “Let’s give him a sec to get over the shock,” says Nick, turning up the radio. “He’ll rally soon.”

  As we approach Leo’s small split-level home, for some reason the first thing I notice is the chain-link fence around the backyard, which looks broken and sad. There are no cars in the driveway, so I figure we’ll try the door, maybe find an open window. The front screen is off its hinges, I notice, as we walk up to it.

  Eli stays in the van, though. I guess he’s still in a state of shock.

  As I reach for the Cutlers’ doorknob, I hear a shout from around the side of the house, where Carson went to scout. “Over here! Window!”

  I turn the knob just in case, but it’s locked, so we head to the window, where Carson is already hoisting herself inside.

  “The girl is fearless,” says Dylan admiringly.

  I look around to see if any neighbors might be watching, but I don’t see anyone. “I think we’re all being pretty brave right now,” I say, wondering how I got to the point where I had enough courage to commit trespassing or breaking and entering or whatever official crime we’re guilty of right now.

  Nick goes in next, and he pulls me up and in through the window. I know instantly that this was Leo’s bedroom—it’s crazy, but I can still sense some of his energy here. It kind of feels like being lightly pricked by a thorn, but over and over again. This isn’t his room anymore, of course. There’s a sewing machine in the corner, and off to the side there’s an exercise bike with laundry draped over it. The closet has no door, and I see a folded-up ironing board and a few winter coats hanging in there.

  But on the walls, I see Leo.

  There’s a bulletin board with photos of him in football uniforms, starting at around age five, it looks like. There’s a third-place certificate from a school talent show, for singing! He wore a blue tux to a junior high dance. I have to smile at the personality I see in these photos. It’s the Leo I met, but the good side. The funny, jocular, loyal friend Thatcher must have known before he became a crazy poltergeist.

  On one wall is a huge pen-and-ink drawing of a tree, with branches and roots spreading out in all directions.

  “Leo was an artist?” asks Dylan.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “I’m sure that’s someone else’s.”

  Dylan leans in to the lower right corner of the drawing. “Well, he signed it.”

  I lean back and stare at his creation. Leo was an artist. It’s hard to imagine. In the Prism he was all about destruction, not creation.

  “I don’t really know where to look,” says Carson. She’s rifling through the sewing basket. “Oh, this is cool.”

  She picks up a gold cuff link. “LC,” she says.

  “His initials.” I take it from her and turn it over in my palm. And when I hold it in my hand, I have this gut feeling that Leo has not been back here for a long time. That it would hurt him, somehow, to remember what he used to be.

  “The ring’s not here,” I tell them, handing the cuff link back to Carson.

  “How do you know?” Dylan is starting to open the drawers of a wooden dresser along the wall, but I put my hand on his arm.

  “No,” I say. “Don’t. This family has suffered enough.”

  The feeling of thorns is becoming more intense, and I want to get out of here, to leave the Cutlers alone. Just as I’m about to swing one leg out of the window, I hear a low growl from the ground below us.

  Nick, Carson, Dylan, and I all lean out to look.

  Doberman. I should have figured. Such a Leo dog.

  “Nice puppy,” whispers Nick.

  The dog is not amused. He barks once, loudly, and bares his sharp teeth.

  “Front door,” whispers Carson.

  We back away from the window, hoping the dog isn’t smart enough to figure out where the other exits are.

  “One . . . two . . . three!” yells Dylan as we burst open the front door and start running toward the car where Eli’s waiting.

  “Go, go, go!” shouts Nick, who’s bringing up the rear.

  The dog spots us, but we’re already down the driveway and we have a lead on him. We are screaming for Eli to open the doors. He’s in the backseat of Nick’s van, and when he sees us running, he does open one large sliding door. We all cram in on top of him and slam it shut in the dog’s face.

  Eli groans from the bottom of the heap.

  Nick, Carson, Dylan, and I all mumble some form of sorry and move into our own seats. The dog is still barking outside the driver’s-side window. Nick presses the lock button.

  “Just in case,” he says, and it makes me laugh.

  “‘There is no fear in chasing. There is fear in being chased.’ Jack Nicklaus.”

  “The golfer?” asks Eli.

  “Yes,” says Dylan. “I know he was talking about leading on the course, but it feels appropriate anyway.”

  “You spoke!” I say to Eli.

  “Well, y’all piled up on me!” he says. “It kinda snapped me out of it.”

  I grin at him and then I look around the van. Carson is panting from the run, her cheeks red with effort. Nick is sweating up a storm. Dylan looks surprisingly cool for just having sprinted for his life. His glasses even stayed in place. And Eli . . . well, he still seems a little dazed, but that’s okay. The prickling sensation from inside the house is gone, and I realize that I feel a happiness deep down that I haven’t felt since . . . I don’t know when. I feel less alone than I have in years.

  I let out a little yawp, almost involuntarily, and everyone looks at me funny. “Sorry,” I say. Then I smile at the Doberman, who’s making his way back to his house. “But that was kind of fun.”

  Carson pulls me in for a hug and says, “That’s my Callie! Now let’s get back to being the chasers and not the chasees.”

  Nick starts up th
e car. “Where to next?”

  “Something is telling me that Leo still has the ring with him,” I say. “Wherever he and Reena are.”

  Dylan nods. “I think you’re right.”

  “So what do we do?” Carson sighs.

  I close my eyes and try to tune in to Thatcher, to see if he’s with us. I don’t feel that warm impression of his soul, just a cool emptiness.

  But maybe it’s good that he’s not here, because even though he seems to understand why I can’t just sit home and wait for this whole mess to be resolved, I know he wouldn’t approve of what I’m about to do, what I have to do.

  So I look at Nick, and I don’t ask. I just tell him, “Take me to a vortex.”

  Twenty-one

  I’M STANDING ON THE east side of the same cemetery that I visited before, but I’m across the grounds from where Thatcher is buried. The last time I came here with Carson, I felt my energy being taken; I felt the poltergeists testing me. I know it’s a vortex, and it’s also up on a hill, so if I stand in the right spot, my friends can still see me. Plus it’s the least populated area I could think of.

  Nick’s van is parked down the hill and across the street. They’re watching, but I’ve told them not to interfere, no matter what they see happening.

  Carson and Nick argued with me, and Eli sat in confused silence when I tried to explain why I had to get to a vortex to confront Leo. “I know he’ll come if I’m there. I need to go alone, so they can’t attempt a possession. Reena and Leo will show—I’m sure of it. And I’ll be able to get the ring.”

  “What makes you think you’ll be able to take the ring from that guy?” asked Nick. “In those photos his neck looked as thick as a tree trunk.”

  “They’re losing energy,” I told him. “They’re becoming weaker by the day, and they haven’t been back to the Prism to recharge—that’s important. I can do it.”

  Dylan was the only one who supported me from the start. “Callie’s right. We need the ring back—they obviously took it for a reason, so that she’d be without protection when they attempt possession. Her going alone is our best shot.”

  And so here I am. At first I just wait, listening to the chirping of the birds and the rustle of the squirrels under the few trees planted in the middle of the hill. It’s not a bad place to be buried, I think. I sit down in the grass and run my hands over its soft texture, focusing on the living world around me instead of looking at the individual stones. I mapped out Leo’s grave, and Reena’s. They’re close together, and I wonder if their families, and Thatcher’s, all went to the same church. Probably.