Ghost Huntress 5 - The Discovery

by Gibson, Marley

  "Oh, y'aaall! You're kidding me?" I hear from behind. We all turn to see Farah Lewis running up to us. She's not late, but she's wearing the wrong uniform. It's the exact replica of what the others have on, only it's the red version, not the white one. "No! No, I didn't. I wore the wrong friggin' uniform?"

  Courtney throws her hands up in disgust. "Farah, didn't you get the e-mail I sent out to everyone? I said the home white uniform." She rolls her eyes for emphasis.

  Farah smacks her head. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry. I've been concentrating so much on my recital and practicing my songs; I thought the red uniform was the home one."

  "Do we need to reschedule?" Courtney asks me.

  I scrunch up my nose. "The yearbook team is working over the weekend to get the layout finished and shipped to the printer. We really need all of the club and organizational photos done today." I shift my eyes to Farah's red outfit. "Maybe Shelby-Nichole can Photoshop it to be white?"

  "If that's what we have to do," Courtney says.

  "No, no, no. I don't want to cause extra work for anyone." Farah drops her pompoms and gym bag to the field. "Don't worry. I live like fifteen minutes from school. I'll run home and get the right uniform and we can do the group pictures last."

  Stephanie and Courtney exchange looks. "That'll work," Courtney says. "Does that work for you, Kendall?"

  It's no big deal. Besides, I want to do the girls justice with good pictures that don't need to be doctored. "No worries," I say.

  Farah grabs her purse and tugs out her keys. "I'll be right back."

  "Don't speed!" Stephanie yells.

  Farah waves, dashes across the field, and runs back up the steps.

  "Okay, then," I say, taking charge. "Fourteen girls to snap. Let's start with the individual pictures."

  Courtney goes first, of course. We decided to get about eight pics of each girl. She stands sideways with her left leg pulled up to the knee of her right, and her poms on her hips. Next, she's lying on her stomach on the field with her legs crossed at the ankles in the air behind her. Totally cute and such a cheerleader pic. I get a couple of her doing jumps. Those turn out really well, so others decide they'll do that too.

  One by one, I click away pictures of the team. Lauren Abbot even does a split for her picture. Ouch, ouch, ouch! No, thank you!

  But I'm having a great time and this is a lot of fun. I can totally see why Taylor was so addicted to the way the world looked from behind the lens. My heart aches momentarily when I think of my friend. I miss her a ton and I don't hear from her often enough. Sure, we e-mail the occasional joke, and we IM'd when she first left town, but it's not the same. I hope she'll come back to Radisson this summer to at least visit. Mom told me that Mrs. Tillson is out of rehab and back at home with her sister. Of course, if Taylor comes back to town, that means...

  I shake myself out of the reverie and get back to the task at hand. Jason Tillson is out of my life. Right now, I'm a yearbook photographer and I need to concentrate on delivering the best pictures that I can. It'll be cool to look at the annual one day and know that I helped out in such a tangible way. I mean, selling ads to help us pay for the printing is one thing. This is something that I can point to and say, I did that.

  Twenty minutes later and ten girls down, I relish the jolt of energy rushing through me. "Next victim," I call out with a chortle.

  "That would be me," Stephanie says.

  "Awesome!"

  She reaches over to her left wrist and unhooks her watch, laying it next to her purse. "It's been a half-hour," she says. "I wonder where Farah is."

  "She'll be back," Courtney states. "She better be, or you will have to Photoshop her."

  Stephanie ignores her captain and stands in front of my camera. Her long, gold-brown hair is pulled into her signature side ponytail, and her makeup is flawless. She mimics the poses Courtney did, foot up, lying in the grass, and then she does a cutesy little squat pose with her elbow on her knee and her chin resting on her fist.

  "That's a great one," I say, clicking away. "Do you want to do some jump shots now?"

  "Let me stretch for a second."

  I take that time to switch out the SD memory card in the camera and then turn back to Stephanie.

  "Ready?"

  "Yeah, just a sec," she says.

  Then my vision begins to blur. Is it from the heat and all the running around I've been doing? I stand up straight and rub hard at my eyes. Ack ... I hope I'm not developing myopia or anything. The haziness isn't clearing no matter how hard I blink. Then the clouds start rolling in, dropping a hazy film across the football stadium. This is so inconvenient. Just when I'm almost done with the shoot. The headache begins tapping at my temples and I know this isn't good.

  Oh no...

  There is no mist. At least, not really. Not one that nonpsychic people can see.

  In the mist is danger. A confusion that I can't suss out.

  "Kendall, are you all right?" Stephanie calls to me. I hear her through the screen of fog and reach out with my hands. Nothing is there. Everything has faded away into nothingness. I squint, trying to focus in the distance. I close my eyes hard. I reopen them. The murky miasma remains, creeping toward me on determined feet.

  "Kendall?"

  But no one can help me. I'm deep into the vision. I'm absorbed in the moisture and steam around me pulling me closer and closer. The wind howls a sad, sad song, almost crying with the message it has to bring to me. This is more than something in my eyes or my tiredness from taking so many pictures. It's a deep trance that's sucking me farther and farther down into the abyss.

  Help me, I call out.

  There isn't anyone to hear me.

  The cheerleaders are gone and I'm on my own, swatting away the flies of confusion soaring around, nipping at me, and buzzing so close to my ears.

  I'm helpless in this deep chasm, struggling to escape.

  Just show me what you need to and let me go, I beg whoever is presenting me with this.

  It can't be good. Nothing this trancey ever is.

  A figure forms in the distance, dark and shadowed in a silhouette of smoke. It's ... oh no ... it's Anona.

  Why are you doing this to me?

  She nearly floats to me in a cloud tinged with silver and blue, shining through the murky darkness. Her lips part and she whispers her warning.

  It is happening again ...

  Then stop it! I scream out.

  No one can stop it ...

  You have to!

  A bloodcurdling screech peals from my throat. One that could strip paint from the side of a house. My body spirals out of control, falling ... falling ... falling...

  From above my body, I see Stephanie, Courtney, and Lauren run to my aid. I'm on the ground; my camera is two feet away. Why won't Anona help me? Why can't she stop whatever is happening? Why can't I? Why tell me if there's nothing I can do?

  As I'm lying helpless on the ground, searing pain blazes right through me like it's my own. My chest is heavy, my lungs filling with blood, my organs caving in, much like when my lung collapsed after my accident. Only this isn't an accident that I'm part of; I'm only feeling it. Someone else is experiencing it for real. Every breath is a chore I don't have the strength to complete. The throbbing is so intense, so hot. Tears rain from my eyes, nearly enough to irrigate the football field. I can't speak. Words are clogged with nowhere to go.

  My neck snaps—just like hers.

  My bones are crushed—just like hers.

  The sounds of a heart fighting to survive—then nothing.

  "Help her!" I yell. "Oh, God! Someone please help her!"

  No one can help her.

  Certainly not me.

  And I black out.

  Chapter Thirteen

  FARAH LEWIS'S TWISTED VOLKSWAGEN Jetta was found wrapped around the large elm tree at the corner of Exeter Street and Highway 16, just one mile from her house. It was next to the jackknifed semi that seems to have skidded over to her side of the ro
ad before ending up in the ditch.

  From what the authorities can make out, in her rush to get home and pick up the correct cheerleader uniform, she didn't notice the truck taking its turn at the four-way stop. Too late, Farah swerved to miss the oncoming eighteen-wheeler. Her car skidded into the brush and hit the tree head on.

  The paramedics pronounced the seventeen-year-old cheerleader and budding opera singer dead at the scene. Although it appeared that she had put her seat belt on, the police said it looked like it came undone at some point. She was thrown into the steering wheel, and it crushed her chest and snapped her neck.

  The level of pain, hurt, confusion, and sadness I'm feeling is beyond devastating. I literally saw the wreck as it was occurring. As. It. Was. Happening. There was nothing I could have done to warn her or to stop it from happening. What the hell good are these psychic visions if I can't prevent horrible things from taking place?

  I sit on my bed, numb from head to toe. Patrick is next to me, rubbing my back and shoulders, trying to soothe my ache.

  I sip air into my lungs, no longer crying out in empathy from what Farah experienced in her last minutes. My tears stream down my face, wetting my black blouse in fat splotches.

  "Get it out, Kendall." Patrick's voice is tender and caring.

  "Poor Farah," I say in between sobs. "Poor, beautiful Farah with the voice of an angel. It's so not fair."

  Patrick rubs my hair. "Now she can sing with the angels."

  It's Monday morning and Radisson High School is closed due to the tragedy. Patrick got permission to skip school in Duluth so he could be here with me today. "I wasn't best friends with Farah, but she was a very nice person. She didn't deserve to die so young. I don't understand."

  "There are things in this world people aren't meant to understand, Kendall. Even psychics like us."

  Mom raps lightly on the door and I lift my eyes. "Celia and Becca are downstairs. Are you two ready to go?"

  I stand and lean on my bureau. My eyes are bloodshot from three days of crying. There's really no use in trying to wear makeup when it'll just end up on the tissues I have crammed into my purse. I smooth my hand over my black skirt, one I borrowed from Mom. I reach into my jewelry box and pull out my Grandma Ethel's crystal necklace, feeling that I want a connection with the one other person I knew who died. Then I grab my sunglasses and perch them on my head.

  Patrick follows me out the bedroom door and down the stairs to where Celia and Becca are waiting. Of course, Becca has no shortage of black clothing, but somehow she seems more demure today. Celia wears a black blazer, a gray shirt, and black dress pants. She sort of looks as if she's going on a job interview, and it makes me smile.

  "Hey, y'all," Becca says. "Ready to go?"

  "As ready as I'll ever be for something like this."

  Celia wraps her arm around my shoulder and walks on my left; Patrick is on my right. I don't know why everyone is handling me with such kid gloves. Yeah, I realize the whole varsity cheerleading squad witnessed my freak-out, my collapse, and then my blackout, but I'm still alive. I'm not the one we're eulogizing today.

  This is a huge deal for the sleepy little town of Radisson, Georgia. The police have the street in front of the United Methodist church blocked off, and they're directing traffic for the many funeral-goers.

  "There must be a couple hundred people here," Celia mutters when we walk up.

  "I can't believe it," I say in a whisper.

  When we get to the front of the church, an usher stops us.

  "Are you close friends or family?"

  Becca cops an attitude. "Umm, yeah, we went to school with her."

  He drums his fingers together. "It's just that we barely have enough seats in the church to hold everyone. If you're not immediate friends or family, I'm going to have to ask you to go to the fellowship hall and watch the service from the video feed."

  Stephanie Crawford walks out of the sanctuary, past the usher, and puts her arm around me. She's wearing the all-black cheerleader uniform with RHS in red and white lettering that I've seen at basketball games. I'd heard that the cheerleaders were serving as pallbearers, but I had no idea they would be in mourning uniforms.

  "Mr. Abramson," she says sweetly, "Kendall, Celia, and Becca are very good friends and they should be shown into the church. Patrick too."

  We all nod our thanks and run the gauntlet into the place of worship.

  RHS students, faculty, and administrators fill the right side of the church; Farah's family and other friends are on the left. The four of us slip into the sixth row and sit close together so others can fill in.

  Farah's class picture sits in a frame on the altar, surrounded by candles, stuffed animals, cards, and flowers. Her casket—closed—is a simple one of white steel with shiny silver handles. A blanket of pink roses and baby's breath cover it, with her white cheerleader uniform draped over the top.

  "That damned uniform," I snarl through my teeth.

  "We're in church, Kendall," Celia fusses.

  "It's because of that uniform that she's dead."

  Celia takes my hand and squeezes it, trying to empathize. But no one other than Patrick can understand the pain I'm experiencing. The intense pressure on my vital organs is palpable.

  Tears slip from the corners of my eyes. "We should have just Photoshopped it. Why did I let her leave?"

  "It's not your fault, Kendall," Patrick murmurs to me. "Stop beating yourself up. It was her time."

  My eyes shoot to Patrick's. "How can it be a seventeen-year-old's time? I do not understand that."

  "Shhh," Becca says from the other side of Celia. "The music's starting."

  The RHS cheerleaders lead the processional and sit on the right side of the church in the front rows. Farah's family follows—her mother and father, holding hands, and her two little sisters, one near Kaitlin's age and the other looking about nine at the most. My heart goes out to them over their loss. They'll never hear Farah sing again or watch her do backflips at pep rallies.

  I sniff into the Kleenex I retrieve from my purse. Patrick snuggles me into the crook of his arm, and the service begins.

  Strangely enough, even though this is a funeral for one so young, there's a celebratory atmosphere. The sanctuary is filled with the sweetness of freshly bloomed flowers of all sizes, shapes, and colors. The minister follows the family in, climbs to the altar, and then leads us in prayer. As soon as he's done, Farah's mother steps to the pulpit. She's wearing a charcoal gray suit that hugs her curves, and she sports an almost vibrant smile.

  "Farah loved life. And she lived every moment of her life to the fullest. She loved singing and she loved dancing and she loved cheerleading. She loved her friends and she was so looking forward to her future and applying to the Berklee College of Music in Boston to pursue her opera career. That was cut short when our precious girl lost control of her car..." Mrs. Lewis stops for a moment to dab her eye with a tissue. She continues though. "Farah would be the first to say, 'Mom, don't have a boring old funeral for me. It should be a party.'"

  We all laugh, and I can actually imagine Farah saying that.

  Mrs. Lewis smiles through her tears. "She would have wanted us to remember her laughing, cheering, and singing. So this will be a celebration of her short life. In honor of my daughter's memory, the choir will sing several of her favorite songs. Thank you all for being here and for loving Farah almost as much as we did."

  The organ hums to life and the choir begins singing "Ave Maria." The soloist steps forward to perform the classic piece, and I close my eyes to absorb the loveliness of the aria.

  "Oh my God," I hear. "That woman is, like, totally butchering this masterpiece."

  Slowly, I peel open my eyes and see Farah—or rather, the ghost of her—sitting on the bench in front of me. She's wearing her red cheerleader uniform and turns back to talk to me, rolling her eyes in the process.

  "What are you doing here?" I lean forward and whisper.

  Celia and Becca
twist to look at me, so I sit back into the seat.

  Farah looks exactly the same as she did when I saw her leave the football field in search of the correct uniform. Thank heavens she's not appearing to me bloody and battered from her accident. I totally couldn't take that.

  "Ugh!" Farah says. "I appreciate the effort, but that woman has no business trying to hit those high notes. No one hits a high C like I do."

  "I agree with you," I whisper.

  Patrick nudges me to be quiet, but I nod to indicate where Farah is sitting. He shrugs, which tells me he doesn't see her.

  It's Farah. She's right here.

  I can't see her.

  Well, I can.

  I speak to her in my mind so I won't disrupt the service.

  Do you know the state of your being? I ask in my head.

  "Duh," she says with a giggle. "I'm, like, dead, Kendall. No one could have lived through that accident." She cranes her neck to see the casket and then slumps back in the seat. "Closed casket, huh? Damn. I wanted to see what outfit Mom put on me."

  I'll find out, I say in my head.

  With clear astonishment, Farah twists in the pew and hangs over the back of it, staring at me with amazement. "Oh my God! You really can see the dead, Kendall. That is soooooooo cool."

  It's not cool that you're dead, Farah.

  She waves me off with her hand. "I never knew so many people cared about me."

  Of course they do. See the turnout today? There's even a video feed for people in the fellowship hall.

  Her white teeth sparkle as she smiles. "Seriously? Yet I couldn't get nominated for homecoming court this past fall. Explain that to me."

  I try to suppress my laughter, but it trickles out. I clear my throat over it so no one thinks I'm full of hilarity at a funeral, even if it has been termed a life celebration.

  At least Farah recognizes that she's passed and isn't one of these moody-ass ghosts that I've dealt with. But...

  Why haven't you passed into the light? I ask her in my head.

  She curls her lip and her eyes blaze out at me. "I don't know. I think I have something I have to do before I leave."

  Like what?