Ghost Huntress 5 - The Discovery

by Gibson, Marley

  She hangs her head and her silky black hair surrounds her face. A soft, emotionally choked voice says, "Please show yourself out. I have work to do."

  I stretch my fingers to reach out to Andi, stopping only inches away from her. Flashed pictures dance through my head of Andi and me laughing together in the future, hugging even. We are meant to be in each other's lives.

  My hand drops to my side and I muster up the courage to say one last thing. "I'm willing to submit to DNA testing to see if we're related. Anything to know who I am and where I came from. No strings attached."

  The words hang in the air like drying laundry.

  She scoffs and then extends her hand to indicate the spiral staircase. Mom tugs on mine and we descend to the main level. Surprisingly enough, Andi follows; the clicking of her heels taps out her judgment.

  I stop and turn. "Please?"

  Our similar hazel eyes lock and I sense a light of hope in the irises. It's brief, but it's there. So I reach into my purse and pull out the index card I'd filled out earlier, in the rental car. The one with my name, address, cell phone number, e-mail addy, Mom's cell, and the landline at our house in Radisson. I give the neatly written information to Andi Caminiti and take her hand in mine. Her warmth spreads to me, and I feel that there's a chance.

  "Can we just try?"

  Chapter Two

  IN RADISSON, IT'S TIME TO GET BACK into the groove of my life—whatever that may be now—and not think about the encounter with Andi Caminiti or if I'll ever hear from her again.

  The ball is in her court at this point, so I just need to focus on my friends, family, Patrick, and school. Bleck ... and I really have to hunker down in history class. Mr. Rorek isn't concerned about what's happening in my present. He wants me only to focus on the past and write a paper that will impress him.

  Monday at lunch, I sit with Celia, Becca, and Shelby-Nichole, and we talk about our ghost hunting. Since the departure of Taylor Tillson to Alaska—with He Who Shall Not Be Mentioned, aka Jason "Won't Message or E-mail Me" Tillson—Shelby-Nichole has taken over as resident photographer for our group. It's great to have her with us, but I'll admit that her photography isn't as keen as Taylor's. That girl has a psychic eye for capturing the most amazing pictures.

  This is good.

  I need this.

  Back to life. Back to reality.

  Back to ghost hunting. I want to use the skills that I developed at the retreat in California to really help with cases and do more to help families who have experienced not only paranormal activity but also possibly fear and loss. Like what I'm trying to do with Andi Caminiti. No, no, no ... I won't think about her right now. Or my potential father. I'll listen to Celia as she reviews possible cases for us.

  "Oh, you'll love this one. We've gotten an e-mail from this guy in Savannah who insists that he has a 'haunted sandwich' in his house," she reports with a straight face. Nothing rattles Celia Nichols. Doesn't miss a beat on the weird, outrageous, and wicked bizarre.

  "Get out of town," Becca says with a laugh.

  "A haunted sandwich?" I ask. "Is that even possible?"

  Celia flips through her ghost-huntress notepad. "One James Pendergrass reports that he made a ham sandwich for his son, Jeffrey, age seven, two weeks ago, and before his son could eat it, a Civil War soldier came up out of the floor in his kitchen and went into the sandwich. Mr. Pendergrass claims that this turned the sandwich into a ghost and it's now haunting him."

  Becca twists her black-dyed hair around her index finger. "What's this guy been smoking and why ain't he sharing?" she says, tongue-in-cheek.

  I hold up my hand to stop everyone. "May I suggest we move on to a more sane case?" I just can't deal with someone that wack right now.

  Celia moves to the next note. "Okay, there's a huge historical display that's going to be at the Radisson fairgrounds this weekend, focusing on the town's haunted past. It's this exhibit of objects from an old house in town that no one goes into. Imagine getting your hands on some of those historical items. I was thinking we could go together and maybe try our hand at getting some EVPs from the old relics?"

  "I'm cool with that," Becca says. "I have a new recorder I want to test out."

  "And, Kendall," Celia says, "you can try your hand at psychometry."

  "What's that?" Shelby-Nichole asks.

  Before I can answer, Celia speaks up. "Psychometry is the ability to draw out information about people, events, health, career, whatever is associated with an object, just by touching it or being near it."

  "That's pretty cool," Shelby-Nichole says. She turns to me. "And you can do that?"

  I nod. "What kind of items are in the display?"

  "Pots, pans, clothing from the Civil War," Celia notes. "Some musket balls, clapboard and such from houses, pictures, tintypes, and, oh ... then there's Xander the Doll, who I've been dying to see. They don't let him out much."

  "Xander the what?" Becca asks with a brow raised.

  Celia almost pants with excitement. "Xander the Doll is like from the late eighteen hundreds and has all sorts of curses and stories attached to him. When he was still owned by the Farnsworth family the neighbors always cliamed he was responsible for weird shit that happened. Like lamps breaking, slats falling out of beds, that kind of thing. Worse stuff too, like sickness and bad injuries. Back then people said it was Xander that wreaked all the havoc."

  "A doll?" Becca asks flatly. "Yeah, right. I've heard some stories, Nichols, but that one takes the cake."

  Shaking her short black bob, Celia presses her lips together. "It's Radisson history. I remember hearing about it when I was a little kid."

  "Where's the doll been?" I ask.

  Celia shrugs and continues. "I haven't heard anything about Xander the Doll in forever. So it's going to be amazing to see him in the historical collection." She turns to me. "You're totally going to connect with him."

  "Works for me." I can kill two birds with one stone: work on my psychometry skills and research Radisson's history to help me out with my Civil War paper. After all, it's not going to write itself.

  The bell rings for fifth period so we gather up our lunch trays and clear out.

  I wave to my chicas and then rush to my locker to grab my history book.

  As I'm clicking the lock back in place, a text comes in.

  >Trig class boring. Thinking of u.

  >Just finished lunch. Thinking of u 2.

  >c u Friday afternoon.

  >Long wait. 2 long.

  >Ditto that.

  >Skype after school?

  >Of course. Enjoy history.

  >TTYL!

  Awww ... Patrick's so awesome. Imagine that—a boyfriend who actually texts! Oh, did I go there?Yep. I did. Sorry, but I'm still a little bitter over how Jason Tillson and I were like all in love and stuff and then he just—poof—disappeared from my life like he was never there. Yeah, yeah, he had to move to his dad's in Alaska, but the last I checked, they did have cell phones and e-mail and Internet connections there. Haven't heard diddly-squat from him since we said goodbye in his driveway.

  But Patrick...

  Happy sigh.

  He came along at just the right time and to just the right place. For both of us, actually.

  Well, we thought we were going to have to do the long-distance-relationship thing, but the hand of fate stepped in and the air force transferred his father to the Atlanta area. Now, Patrick and his dad live in this nice house in Duluth, Georgia, which is only a forty-five-minute drive from Radisson.

  He calls me all the time. He texts me all the time. My Facebook profile is a picture of the two of us all smashy-faced together; he stretched out his arm and took the picture with his cell phone. Not that I'm worrying about it or anything, but I can't help wondering if Jason's checked out my page all the way up there in Alaska. I mean, everyone comments on how perfect Patrick and I are together. And I have to agree. Patrick and I mesh so much better than Jason and I did. Not that I didn't like bein
g with Jason. It's just that Patrick and I share this psychic connection. He's not too overprotective of me or cynical about my abilities. He gets why I have to use my skills, investigate, and try to help people. Patrick appreciates what it's like to see, hear, and feel things that you can't explain. He understands the voices and visions in my head because he has them himself. We sometimes share them, in fact.

  Now I dreamily float down the hallway toward the door that reads Mr. Scotty Rorek, my history teacher. I take my seat in the third row, plant my elbows on top of the desk, and rest my chin in my hands. Closing my eyes, I conjure up Patrick's handsome face, drawing it in my mind from memory. That firm jaw. Those chocolate brown eyes. The handful of gray hair at his temples. And the tat on his arm that is just like the one I have. Little bugger still stings like crazy and it's a task hiding it from my mom. She will go totally ballistic when she sees it, if she ever does.

  Mr. Rorek walks in and sets his gigamonic coffee mug on the podium. "Turn to chapter twelve and let's talk about the Battle of Gettysburg, a pivotal moment in the War Between the States that some say..."

  I tune Mr. Rorek out a bit as I think about Patrick and getting to know him better. Jason and I rushed things so much in our relationship. Patrick and I don't feel like we're on some sort of deadline. With Jason, I was the new girl in town with this strange ability and we were thrown together. That whole opposites-attracting thing. It was like wham, bam, it's over, ma'am. Just when I fell hard for Jason, everything blew up in our faces. And my heart truly broke when we said goodbye. I didn't have to be psychic to know that a long-distance Georgia-to-Alaska relationship wasn't going to work. I just never imagined it would be a cold-turkey thing.

  Even though Patrick lives in another town, we've got it all worked out to hang as often as possible. We Skype for hours at a time—even helping each other with our respective homework—and he plans on coming to Radisson every weekend to hang out, ghost hunt with the girls and me. And, of course, some quality one-on-one time. Father Mass has an extra bedroom at the rectory, so Patrick has a home away from home. I do believe I'm settling into this psychic existence, my abilities, and all the new people in my life.

  "Earth to Kendall. Come in, Kendall," Mr. Rorek shouts.

  Bolting upright, I look to the front of the class. "Yes, sir?"

  "I was asking if you could tell me the name of the regiment that defended Little Round Top at the battle on the second day of Gettysburg?"

  "Oh." Umm. Err. Busted daydreaming about my life.

  I'm saved, though, as my spirit guide, Anona, a beautiful Native American woman, appears next to my desk, tsk-tsking and shaking her head.

  "The regiment, Kendall? You did read the assignment, right?"

  "Yes, Mr. Rorek." Okay, that's a bit of a fib. I started reading last night but fell asleep. I look to Anona, begging her with my eyes for some scholarly assistance. She smiles and shows me a New England state and a number.

  "It was the Twentieth Maine," I say firmly.

  Mr. Rorek nods and then harrumphs. "I hope you'll pay much more attention to the Radisson Civil War display at the fairgrounds, Ms. Moorehead."

  How does he know about my psychometry experiment? "Sir?"

  He passes back a stack of papers giving our new assignment. I glance down and see that he's referring to the same exhibit Celia was telling us about at lunch. He says, "I'm requiring all three of my history classes to visit the notable display this weekend and answer questions on what you see. There's nothing like witnessing history for yourself." The teacher stops in front of my row and peers at me. "I assume you'll be able to accomplish that, Kendall?"

  A smile creeps across my face. "You betcha!"

  Awesome ... getting a grade for ghost hunting. What could be easier?

  Chapter Three

  THE WEEK FLIES BY with lots of pop quizzes that make my head ache, homework assignments that make my eyes bleed, and laborious hours on the yearbook that make my hair hurt. It's like the teachers and advisers are trying to catch up on the time we "wasted" while we were away on our spring break. I mean, what did they do? Plot and plan against us? Didn't they get some beach time or chillax time too?

  I couldn't be happier to see Friday roll in.

  I'm home from school with barely enough time to foof my hair, brush my teeth, and dab on a little extra mascara before the front doorbell rings.

  "It's Patrick!" I shout as I bound down the stairs of our hundred-plus-year-old house. This is his first trip to Radisson to meet the parentals and all my friends. Cocky boy that he is, he's not worried a bit. I guess I shouldn't be either.

  "I'll get it!" Kaitlin screams out, dashing by me.

  "It's for me," I insist.

  "Nuh-uh, it's Penny Carmickle and Daisy Reinhart coming over!"

  "Umm, Kaitlin, I'm psychic. I know it's my boyfriend."

  "Which one?" she asks and then sticks her tongue out at me. All I can do is freeze in my tracks next to the piano that sits in the front hallway.

  Kaitlin beats me to the door and jerks it open. I know I'm right when I see her small shoulders slump. "Oh. You must be the new one."

  Patrick flashes her a dazzling smile and ignores her snarky remark. "You must be Kaitlin."

  She shifts her weight to one hip. "Kennnnnnnnnndaaaaalll!"

  I step in. "You're such a brat, Kaitlin. I told you it was for me." She retreats into the kitchen and I slide forward.

  A timid hi squeaks out from me.

  I haven't seen Patrick since we said goodbye to each other at the Fresno airport after our retreat. I never knew I could miss someone so much. Especially someone that I'd just met.

  "I missed you too, Kendall," he says, reading my thoughts, like we can do when we're in close proximity.

  And ... I melt.

  He no longer wears the knit hat, gloves, and sunglasses to shield himself from all the psychic vibes in the air around him. Oliver, the counselors, and our retreat seemed to work just fine on him. Of course, saving me from drowning in the Cream of Pacific Ocean helped us both over a big hurdle. It was at that moment that I knew he and I were destined to be together. Now, Patrick stretches his right hand out and snags my fingers, tugging me toward him. We come together in a warm embrace that has my toes literally tingling.

  I drink in the smell of him. Shaving cream. Deodorant. A smidgety-bit of some tangy cologne. Nothing too icky-smelling. I find him doing the same, sniffing my hair.

  "Mmm ... you smell like blooming flowers," he says all dreamily.

  "Nope. Just Neutrogena," I say with a laugh.

  Patrick's eyes crinkle into a smile and he chuckles along with me. Then his face tightens into a way-serious look. OMG—he's going to kiss me!

  Yes, I am, he says to me telepathically. Now be quiet.

  All words, thoughts, and emotions are tossed into the air above me; they scatter like fallen leaves, then rearrange themselves and dive back into me in a pattern of pure joy, happiness, and crushdom. Patrick turns his head to the right and lowers his lips to mine. Soft and sweet at first. Then a bit more frenzied. Warm skin meeting and saying hello after a long time away from each other. We move together; our arms wrap around each other in a clinging embrace. He deepens the kiss more and nearly takes my breath away.

  And I thought Jason Tillson could kiss!

  Do you really want to think about him while we're doing this?

  I was just saying...

  And I was just saying, focus on me.

  Yes, sir.

  So much for keeping any secrets from this guy.

  Damn right.

  Somewhere overhead, I hear bells, yet I don't stop kissing Patrick until I hear a gagging sound from behind me.

  "Do I have to be subjected to this again?" Kaitlin asks.

  Patrick and I pull apart and he blushes from cheek to cheek. I roll my eyes at my little sister and say, "Whatever."

  She opens the door to her friends Penny and Daisy and the three of them swerve off to the right to attack the Wii.
I thread my fingers into Patrick's and lead him to the kitchen. I open the fridge to show him macaroni salad, a leftover breakfast frittata, and last night's fried chicken Mom made for dinner.

  "Pick your poison."

  "Fried chicken, please."

  Just as he's finishing a second drumstick, Mom walks in the back door.

  "TGIF!" she exclaims. "It seems like the stomach flu is running rampant in this town. I swear, we saw—" She stops in her tracks as she's pushing out of her sensible nurse shoes. A vivid, welcoming smile crosses her face. " You have to be Patrick. I'm Sarah Moorehead."

  Patrick politely wipes his hands on a napkin, stands, and walks over to my mother. "Hey there, Mrs. Moorehead. Nice to meet you."

  "Please, call me Sarah."

  "I'll try," Patrick says with a nod.

  Mom shifts her eyes to the chicken bones. "I see you kids have helped yourselves."

  "Yes, ma'am," he says. "It was delicious. I haven't had a home-cooked meal in a while, so I appreciate your efforts."

  "Why's that?" Mom asks with her brow raised.

  Patrick stubs his sneakered foot against the base of the kitchen island. "Oh, well, you know, with Dad being in the military and all. I get a lot of chow that he brings to me from the officers club. My mom, from what I can remember, was never really much of a cook. I've pretty much grown up on Burger King and FatDonald's," he says with a laugh.

  Mom rubs his shoulder. "That's a shame about your mom, sweetie. Before you head home on Sunday, I'm going to cook you an amazing homemade meal. What's your favorite dish?"

  He leers my way and I read his thoughts: Kendall.

  Now I blush from cheek to cheek. Be good. This is my mom!

  "I love pot roast with potatoes, onions, and carrots. My grandmother used to make it for us when we lived near her in Colorado."

  "Yankee pot roast it will be," Mom says like the happy homemaker she is.

  I grab my purse and car keys. "I'm taking him over to Father Mass's and then we're going to the fairgrounds."