by Shelly Brown
All I really knew was that I was never going back to that slaughterhouse again. Not even if Brett Lovell invited me with a trail of rose petals.
No way. Not gonna happen.
Jessica arrived at our locker, crammed a grocery bag filled with snack-size chip bags inside, then slammed it shut.
“Jessica, our locker is going to reek like Cheetos.”
“Whatever.” Jessica adjusted her backpack and took off for class. All four-foot-eleven inches of her was swallowed in the crowd immediately.
I tried to catch up, but my thigh was killing me. Stupid Justin Henderson and his speedy shot. I mean, I was super grateful that he saved my life, full props for that, but I hadn’t been able to walk without limping.
Jessica must have slowed down because she emerged from in front of this giant of a ninth grader and started walking beside me like she’d never left.
“You know what I think will help you win the election?” She was my campaign manager after all. “You need to belong to a group—like a club or a sport—because then all the people in that group will vote for you.”
I scrunched my nose. I wasn’t really athletic, good at public speaking, or gifted with any musical talent. I was pretty sure if I joined a club they’d regret it. “Really?”
Someone shouted my name from behind. Before I knew it Justin Henderson was walking beside me. “Hey, how are you feeling?”
Out of habit, I flashed my don’t-talk-to-me smile and he raised his eyebrows in understanding. But we were both going to English class so we just kept walking side by side.
“Araña!” Jessica shrieked, pointing to the ground in front of Justin. Inches from his left foot was a huge spider—bigger than an Oreo, with the weirdest black and tan stripes.
“Get it!” Jessica said backing away from the thing.
It froze as if standing really still in the middle of a crowded hall with green tile would offer any camouflage or protection.
“Justin, get it!” Jessica shouted again but Justin just stooped down to pick it up on a piece of paper.
I stomped on both the paper and the spider.
I was scared of kidnappers, vampires, and bad grades, but not spiders. Or maybe it was my fear of them that made me immune to killing them. Justin looked mortified as he tried to shake the squished bug off of his study notes.
“Justin’s a bug lover, Jess. Remember he cried when his fifth grade centipede project died.”
Justin wiped the paper on his jeans. “I didn’t cry.”
“Whatever,” I said as I walked away.
Justin came into class and sat behind me. Alphabetical order had me sitting next to the kid practically my whole life. That probably had a lot to do with why we were such good friends when we were kids. Neighbors at school, neighbors at home, and the same taste in video games. (Mario Cart.)
I was afraid he was going to try to ask me how I was doing again when Anthony Inzerello started talking to him.
Saved!
“Hey Justin, guess who I saw last Friday?”
“Who?” Justin tried to sound disinterested. Anthony wasn’t the type to start a conversation with Justin for fun, so there was probably a joke coming at his expense.
“Your girlfriend. The White Witch at Old Mine Cemetery.” He was such a jerk.
“Did you really see her?” Justin pulled out his homework from his backpack.
“Yep,” Anthony said taking Justin’s homework off of his desk. “She told me to give you a kiss for her.”
Ignoring the insult, Justin took his homework back. “What’d she look like?”
I was always impressed that although Justin was big enough to crush rude people, like Anthony, he was so patient. Man, if I had that super strength I would have become a crime-fighting justice avenger. At least I would have punched Anthony.
“Me and my cousins hiked out to the cemetery and waited for it to get dark. Then we saw her white dress and freaky dark hair that was like in her face and she carried flowers—”
“What’d she sound like?
“You didn’t even let me finish.” He growled but kept going. “She was silent. Super silent.”
“You didn’t see her.” Justin risked cutting Anthony off again. “She sounds like screaming. Horrific screaming. Seriously, nails-on-a-chalkboard or dying-cat ghastly sounds. Sets all my nerves on edge.” He stopped messing with his backpack supplies and got really still. “I can’t always see where it’s coming from but she always gets hot-breath close. People think that ghosts feel cold, and they kind of do, but this one is burning—like a fever.”
“I’d scream if I saw you, too.” There was the biting remark I was waiting for. “She didn’t scream ‘cause I’m real good looking, see?”
Justin ignored Anthony’s comment and kept going. He had a distant look in his eyes. “She was younger than I expected. Like a teenager or something. Her face was bright white. Glaring white, like I couldn’t really see her nose or anything real well. Her eyes were all black, like a blob of blackness in the shape of an eye, and her black mouth was wide open.”
I dropped my chin and gave Justin a nasty look. He needed to stop before he gave me nightmares.
He didn’t even acknowledge me. “She’s fiercely angry, but I still don’t know why. Her hair is white . . . or blonde, not black. But she does wear the long white dress, you got that part right.”
Anthony looked angry. Apparently he wanted to be the storyteller. He grabbed Justin’s hand and pulled it over to reach his desk. Taking the cap off of his pen he wrote FREAK across Justin’s arm. Justin didn’t even fight it.
Chapter 5
The Scream
Tiffany
Jessica came over and we worked on campaign posters until it got dark. Dinner was filled with nosy questions by my parents, and by bedtime I was way drained. I went to close my blinds and saw Justin across the street, sitting at his desk, probably working on homework. Our bedrooms faced each other, which was really cool when we were little. We would write messages to each other with dry erase markers or just open our windows and yell.
Despite everything I had done to him that day—ignoring him in the hallway, giving him warning looks in English class, calling him a wimp about the spider—Justin looked up from his desk and gave me a smile and a wave, then went back to his work. I gave a small wave back then shut the blinds.
My night routine took an hour of face washing, showering, teeth care, and moisturizing, with my mom popping in between every step to make sure I’d done it right. Finally I turned off my light and crawled into bed.
In the dark I started thinking about what Justin had said in class about the White Witch. What if he was telling the truth? Justin really wasn’t the kind of kid who lied. I mean he lied a little in grade school, right after his parents died, but otherwise, even if it made him look uncool, he usually told the truth. I envisioned the woman with the white skin and black eyes and shivered under the blankets. If he was telling the truth then that lady really existed.
I shivered.
Why did he even go to that place—like ever?
Then, from the corner of my eye I swore something bumped my mirror. I saw it jiggle on top of my dresser and the reflected light move on the ceiling as well. My eyes were glued to it to see if it would happen again. I couldn’t even breathe.
Nothing.
I exhaled. It must have been my parents downstairs making the walls move or something. I pulled my comforter up higher around my face and looked at my window.
No more going to scary places with my friends and no more listening to Justin Henderson’s ghost stories.
Screaming.
I jumped, my head whirling toward the sound. It came from outside.
No, not a scream. I was overreacting. Probably a dog cry or cat . . . dying . . . or something. My imagination was out of control and I needed to focu
s on happy thoughts.
Brett Lovell.
New scented lotion.
Disneyland.
There it was again. The sound seemed to be getting closer, and the closer it got the less it sounded like an animal. It had a hollow screech to it.
It was definitely a person.
Why did I sleep so far away from my parents? Couldn’t our rooms be conjoined? Couldn’t they just hang out right outside of my door after I went to bed? Downstairs they were too far away and with the television on they probably couldn’t even hear me call for them.
The screaming got louder.
Closer.
Right outside my window
The glowing face of the White Witch popped into my mind again and I imagined the howling was coming from that pitch-black mouth. I had two instantaneous impulses, jump out of bed and face the screaming nothing, and the other was to pull the covers over my head.
I went with the latter.
I was too young to die.
The minute I blocked out the faint glow of streetlight the sound stopped as well.
Peeking out of my blanket just enough to breathe the fresh air, I looked around. There was nothing to see, so why did it feel like there was an angry gorilla pounding in my ribcage?
I closed my eyes. Was there something wrong with me? Was I just so freaked out that I was imagining sounds? I seriously never did well with scary things. I had reoccurring nightmares about Ronald McDonald, and he had never done anything to me but offer a balloon at a grand opening. I rolled over to my side. Justin’s story was really getting to me.
Then I heard the hollow screaming again.
Not outside this time. Closer. Like it was downstairs.
In my house.
I sat up and belted, “Mom!”
My pulse was ricocheting around my chest like a possessed bouncy ball when my mom and dad came in.
It took a minute to force my mouth to open. I had never been that scared in my whole life. “Did you hear that screaming?”
Mom sat on the bed next to me, rubbing my back. She looked at dad who stood at the door with his arms folded. “We had the TV on. Do you think you just heard something on the TV?”
I tried to remember what it sounded like. Was that possible? I was going to feel stupid if it was something so simple. “Were people yelling on the show you were watching?”
“Well, no,” Mom said. “It’s one of those house remodeling shows.”
“The commercial break is almost over,” Dad said, poking around my closet quickly so that he could say he did his duty. “We’ll turn the volume down so you can sleep better.”
Mom helped me lay back down. I wanted them to stay with me but I was twelve. They both kissed me on the forehead then scurried out to watch two overly cheerful carpenters make homeowners cry on national television. Mom turned the lights off as she left, and I waited until I could hear them going down the stairs before I jumped up and turned them back on.
I stared at the closet but nothing moved. Out of the corner of my eye the mirror wiggled again.
No, no more. Determined to be done with tonight. I adjusted the mirror so that it sat firmly on my dresser and just as I was about to jump back in bed something felt off.
Something was wrong. Creepy wrong.
I sniffed around. Nope, everything smelled the same. Bubble gum lip gloss, pressed powder, and my fruit-scented eraser collection.
I listened carefully. The hum of my light and the sound of the television downstairs. None of that seemed out of place.
I glanced around, paying close attention to the window, but everything was still.
It was the mirror.
I knew in my gut that was the problem. I took a deep breath then got out of bed and examined it.
Fingerprints. Along both sides.
Well, I had just adjusted it, they were probably mine.
I went to wipe one away and noticed that the fingerprints were much smaller than my own.
I let go and took a step back. No kids had been in my room since last Christmas when my cousins were visiting. Nine months ago. Surely this mirror had been cleaned since then. I used my fuzzy pink pajama top and spit to wipe them all away. It was probably just my cousin. I made sure all of the tiny prints were gone and crawled into bed.
I dreamt that night about Ronald McDonald.
Chapter 6
Five Hundred Pounds of Squirming Bugs
Justin
My dream is always the same. I’m walking G Street at night, it’s windy, and I’m getting closer to the Delta because I can hear the water lapping. It’s too dark to see it, but for some reason I know that if I can make it to the water I’ll be safe. Then the wind kicks up and won’t stop blowing around me. Dirt, trash, and twigs hit me from all directions, dust getting in my eyes. I try to keep moving down the road, but the wind is brutal and throws me hard on my back onto the concrete. That’s the point I always know I’m going to lose.
I can’t get back up. I’m pinned to the ground by five hundred pounds of squirming bugs. For no reason that I know of, they are avoiding my face, so I can still see and breathe. But they are climbing up my pant legs and up my shirt and I want to shout for help—but before anything can come out of my mouth I hear the scream. The ghost scream that has haunted me every day. The one I wish I had never heard. The scream that others seem blissfully oblivious to.
And accompanying that scream are two senseless, cold, faceless, black human-shaped beings slowly coming towards me. I try to move but the bugs are too heavy. When they finally reach me I wake up. I always do at that point.
Awake, I make it a point not to open my eyes—afraid I would see them. In my room. Not the black beings—the real beings. The ones that the dreams are really about.
***
Breakfast was eggs and hash browns over at the Harts and cold cereal at my place, so I made my way across the street.
Tiffany walked in the kitchen and sighed. “Seriously, why are you here?”
“Good morning.” I grinned up at her. She wasn’t always so mean. Junior high was a tough racket, I got that, and I was an easy target, to be certain—but underneath all of that there was a Tiffany Hart I wasn’t sure the others saw. A generous girl who shared her pudding cup with me every day in second grade. A girl who played silent checkers games with me through my I-don’t-want-to-talk-to-anyone phase after my parents died. A girl who would grow up to become just as kind as her mother. Some days it was just buried. Deeply buried. Suffocatingly buried under layers of poorly applied lip gloss, poorly disguised clique envy, and poorly delivered lines from teen angst movies.
I guess I was just trudging through the messy part of our friendship to see when true Tiffany would come back out to play. Red string, after all.
Her mom smacked her on the back of the head. “What kind of a question was that? Be nice to my friend.” She turned to me. “Justin, you’re welcome here whenever.”
“Well, not whenever,” Mr. Hart corrected looking up at his wife.
Mrs. Hart and Tiffany sat at the table and the Harts started talking about some meeting that Mr. Hart had for work that night.
Tiffany served her plate. Without taking a bite, she just watched me eat, her fork poised over her plate. I stabbed a few more bites of egg and swallowed them whole. “What?”
“Forks aren’t shovels.”
I tried to imagine what she was seeing. My bent arms were parallel with the table and my mouth was no more than five inches from my plate.
It was true. I was shoveling.
I sat up straight. “Right.” I changed the position of the fork in my hand so it was more polite and took another bite. “You know what’s funny?”
“Your hair?”
“Haha.” I ran my fingers over my super short buzz, knowing my haircut was too short to be out o
f place. “You wish your hair looked this good. No, I’m having breakfast at Tiffany’s. Get it?”
“I’m not even going to acknowledge that joke.” She shook her head then focused on the eggs in front of her. “I have a question for you.” She stabbed the eggs over and over. “Ghosts can’t like touch things, can they? Because they’re see-through, right?”
Ghosts? Tiffany Hart was asking me a ghost question. I tried to force down the smile that crept up on my lips. “Oooo, that’s a tricky one. Yes and no. What were you thinking?”
“Like fingerprints, they don’t leave fingerprints do they?”
Easy! “Sure they can. Just ask Kori. She had a bunch of fingerprints on her bumper after Gravity Hill.”
The color drained from Tiffany’s face.
***
School was fine, but because it was Wednesday I was anxious all day. After dinner I ran up to my room, shut my door, and locked it. I learned the hard way that if I don’t lock it, my sisters will come in and ruin everything.
I pulled my puffy snow coat out of my closet and crammed it under the door to seal it off. Once I was sure my seal was good, I dug out a plate, a lighter, and a half burnt bundle of sage from the drawer in my desk.
I was ready.
With the gap sealed and the window shut, I closed the blinds and lit the sage bundle. It always took a minute to start burning, but once the burn was steady I blew it out, letting the dry plant smolder. The smell was strong, like a mix of burning leaves and herbs, but calming. I walked the smoking plant around my room, allowing the ashes to fall on the plate.
I learned about using sage from a YouTube video. A quick search of “How to get rid of ghosts” pulled up a woman with a million necklaces and a thick accent instructing me on “smudging.” My mother had sage growing in the backyard and luckily it was hardy enough that Hannah’s negligent gardening couldn’t kill it. A few more internet searches and I figured out how to dry and bind it so that I could create a supply every year.
My first attempt only partially worked because I let it burn instead of putting out the flame and letting it smolder. But partial success gave me my first Wednesday night’s rest.