The Haunted House Project

by Tricia Clasen

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you smile.”

  My brow furrows. “I smile.”

  “Not like that,” he says. “That’s the real one, not the one you put on for show.”

  My face burns and I bite my lip. I motion toward the paper. “What about smells?”

  Chapter Six

  I can barely contain my excitement for the rest of the day. I realize it’s a strange thing to be excited about, but it’s just been so long since I had something to look forward to. Something, anything, that might make a difference. And, yeah, it gives me an excuse to think about my mom.

  So I smile more all afternoon, and people notice. After school, my friends gather around my locker.

  “Hey, are you still on for Friday?” Becki asks.

  “Sure,” I say, maybe a little too quickly.

  She crosses her arms and her face scrunches up. “What’s up with you?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “You’re too happy today.”

  Leah interrupts. “I know! It’s a boooy, right?”

  Becki laughs. “No-brainer—it’s got to be Isaiah.” They all burst into giggles. I’m still in too good a mood to be offended, but I start to protest on his behalf.

  Gisela saves me. “So, is it a boy or not?”

  “Sheesh, I’m just in a good mood. I can get crabby again if you want.”

  “No, no, happy is good. Anyway, we talked Leah—Miss Super Serious—into joining us for the sleepover.” She nods toward Leah. “So we’re all in.”

  “But you all have to help me study,” Leah adds. When Becki rolls her eyes and Gisela laughs, she gets louder. “I mean it. You promised.”

  Becki waves a hand. “I know, I know. It’s fine. I think the plan is for everyone to ride home with me, if that’s okay.”

  I still love the idea of the sleepover. I mean, maybe Becki’s been weird lately, but we have the best sleepovers, especially at Becki’s because her dad doesn’t care how late we stay up. One time, we forced ourselves to stay up all night long. If anyone fell asleep, even for a second, we tickled them awake and then they had to do whatever dare we gave them. Leah cleaned the toilet with her socks. I ate a pickle dipped in chocolate. Actually, it wasn’t as bad I thought it would be, but I pretended to gag so they didn’t make me do something else instead. I’d give anything for that kind of night again, even if I had to run around the block in a swimsuit singing “I’m a Little Teapot” like Gisela did. I miss how easy it all was, how silly we could be, and yeah, going home in the morning to a clean house, a full fridge, and my mom.

  Now, though, I have plans to put in motion for my project, and I stop to think about how the sleepover will affect my schedule. Should I get started with my haunting plan tonight? Or should I wait for Saturday when I can fully commit? I can’t wait to find out how Paige and my dad will react. Will they even notice? I’m not planning to be too obvious. What am I even planning?

  Everyone else takes off to catch their buses, and I take my time walking down the eighth grade hall. It smells rank—like sticking your head inside of a sock someone wore for a week, or taking a whiff of garbage that’s been sitting outside in the summer. Isaiah didn’t think smells were as important as some of the other senses based on the paranormal research, but I’ve decided it’s the best way for me to start. I have a list of the five scents I most associate with my mom. First, there’s the tropical spray for sure; then sunscreen—they’re similar but different—the spray is more breezy, the sunscreen more heavy; and oranges. She had an orange-scented air freshener in her car, so every time you got in it felt fresh and summery, and it made me crave breakfast food even when she picked me up after school.

  I thought about adding spaghetti to my list, but it’s more of family food than really one of my mom’s scents. No, my mom’s food smell is bacon. I had to stop myself from laughing out loud when it hit me while I was trying correct my tennis serve in PE. My mom made bacon at least once a week, and the smell lingered for hours and hours after. It seeped into her hair, so we’d be at a softball game or the mall and she’d get frustrated. “Most women smell like a lush garden, and I’m pig meat.”

  My dad would tease her. “And if more women knew just how hot that was, they’d be bottling up eau de bacon by the gallons and charging a thousand dollars an ounce for it.”

  “Excellent. That can be my claim to fame. I’ll invent a whole line of comfort-food cologne and market it to women. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Well, skip the cooking.”

  So, definitely bacon.

  And finally, her hair spray. If Dad was around when she got ready, he made her spray in the living room so the bathroom didn’t become a cloud of chemicals. She bought these super-sized silver bottles at the expensive natural-products store, but they sure didn’t smell natural.

  I know that I can’t use too many at once, and some smells are going to be tricky. Like bacon. If it’s too strong, they’ll know that someone just cooked it, and that’s not what I’m going for. Plus, I’d have to hide the bacon or eat a whole pound and the grease, and that just seems way too difficult for a Thursday afternoon. Especially if either my dad or Paige happens to be home.

  I know we don’t have any of Mom’s hair spray in the house because Dad cleaned out their bathroom a few months ago. No way can I get to that special store, and I don’t have thirty dollars for a can anyway. So my options are sunscreen, body spray, or oranges. Tough call. Anything in spray form is definitely the easiest, and as luck would have it, I grabbed the travel bottle of my mom’s tropical body spray that my dad had tossed into the garbage pile when he cleaned out all Mom’s stuff. I couldn’t rescue everything, but I tucked that in my pocket and ran to my room. I’ve had the precious contraband hidden in my bottom drawer all this time. It’s perfect.

  But where to spray?

  I’ve completed a full logistical analysis (Isaiah’s words, not mine) of all possible spray locations by the time I get home. I’ve identified two perfect spots. The only way the plan works is if my dad’s not home, and I’m relieved when I open the garage door and his car is gone.

  I race up the stairs and grab the bottle. Though it’s small, it’s still pretty full. It’ll do the job just fine. Even though no one is home, I’m nervous about going into my parents’ room, so I open my dad’s door slowly.

  There’s a part of me that forgets his car is gone and worries my dad might be home in the middle of the day again, but I think I might also still wonder if it’s possible that my mom’s ghost has been hiding in here all this time. Maybe he’s keeping her to himself. As weird as it sounds, I giggle at the idea.

  I’m surprised to find how dark the room is. I don’t remember it being like this. The curtains are shut tight, and all the lights are off. The bed is unmade. More than that, it’s like it was never made in the first place. The covers are bunched at the bottom, and the fitted sheet has come off the end so the mattress is exposed. Around the bed, clothes are scattered everywhere, and I can barely see the floor.

  I thought I might feel closer to her when I walked into the room, but the thing that hits me is the absence of her. If I didn’t know what this room had been before, I wouldn’t have any idea that she’d ever lived here. All that time I spent standing outside the door hoping to catch a bit of her smell was a waste of time. I can’t see her. I can’t smell her. The smell is closer to the tang of the eighth grade hallway than what I’d expect from my parents’ room. I don’t know how long I stand by the doorway, taking it all in. I know I should just do what I planned to do and get out, but I can’t. There’s too much I want to know.

  I move slowly, practically hugging the wall, afraid to fall in. The grief in this room feels like a black hole. I get to the dresser and run a finger across the top. I let loose a layer of dust, and it makes me cough. I open the top drawer, but shut it again when all I see is a bunch of my dad’s underwear.

  The next drawer holds T-shirts and socks. I ge
ntly push the socks around. I start to pick up the shirts, and that’s when I see a small black box tucked in beneath them. My fingers tremble as I pick it up and open the lid. My heart leaps into my mouth. A thick gold wedding ring—my dad’s—gleams, even in the dark room. And, to my surprise, it’s partnered with my mom’s rings. I have to sit down, and I slide to the floor. She had two rings. The first has a simple solitaire diamond, soldered to a thin gold band. The second is the diamond band my dad gave her for their tenth wedding anniversary. She cried when she opened the velvet box. But she was afraid to wear it, so it stayed in her jewelry box most of the time. I glance up at her dresser, but it’s not sitting on top anymore. What happened to her jewelry box?

  I pick up her original ring and slide it onto one of my fingers. It’s obviously way too big, but I hold it in place and wriggle my finger to watch the diamond sparkle. I thought her rings were all gone. I remembered seeing them both on her finger at the wake. How did they get here? I turn them with my fingers, watching the diamonds sparkle. Here she is. Tingles run down my arms.

  If I feel like this just holding her rings, maybe there’s hope for my plan. I put the rings back in the box and tuck it into its spot under the shirts. I wipe away a couple of tears and then I focus on my mission.

  I head over to the bed and pull the little bottle out of my pocket. The pillows are stacked, and I slide the bottom one out and place it on what was my mom’s side of the bed. Then I squirt the bottle, once. I can’t help but let the beachy smell wash over me. When I open my eyes, I immediately notice the time on the alarm clock on the night stand, and I pick up my pace. After making sure everything is back in its place and looks untouched, I run down the stairs and into the family room. I walk right up to the couch, and I press the pump just above the cushion on her side of the couch.

  I race back up the stairs to my room. I am careful to hide the body spray in the back of my closet, inside my old box of Barbies. Then I take my clothes off, leave them in my laundry basket, and hop in the shower. I am careful to scrub hard and use plenty of Dial soap, and then I let the water wash away every last bit of my mom’s scent.

  After the shower, I throw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and I gather the laundry from Paige’s room and combine it with mine. I toss it all into the machine with some soap and press START. I don’t want anyone to be able to connect me to the smell.

  For good measure, I decide to make dinner. I resist the urge to go with BLTs. That would be too much. Instead, I throw a frozen pizza in the oven. That should do the trick. The body spray smell won’t hit until one of them sits down on the couch or my dad lies down in bed.

  I pace, waiting for them to come home. I want to see their reactions. Will they say anything to me? I doubt Dad would, but Paige might.

  She arrives home about fifteen minutes later.

  “Mmm, you made dinner?” she calls out.

  I answer from the dining room where I sit with my laptop, looking up some of the links Isaiah gave me today. “Just a frozen pizza.”

  “Smells good,” she says, and I smile.

  I stand up to get us plates. Paige has already cut the pizza into several large pieces. “I’m starving,” she says.

  I hand her an empty plate.

  “Thanks. Wanna pop in a movie?”

  “Sure. Don’t you have homework?”

  “Yeah, but I want to sit for a while. I’ve been doing a lot of shifts lately. I’m just happy to have the evening off. They tried to call me in, but I said no. I could barely stay awake during history today.”

  “That happens to me every day,” I say. “And I don’t have a job.”

  She tousles my hair and stuffs her mouth with pizza. “Last one in’s a rotten egg.”

  I don’t bother trying to race her. I’ve never been the fastest. Besides, I’m hoping she’ll pick Mom’s old spot. My face falls when I see her sitting on the opposite side of the couch. She’s already picked up the remote. I plop down on the easy chair. It’s usually my dad’s spot, but I want to give her room on the couch so maybe she’ll still smell the spray. I chew and watch the movie as it starts. Honestly, I’m having a hard time paying attention. I keep looking over at my sister to see if she’s noticed anything, but she stares blankly at the screen. I figure she’s probably too far away, and I wonder how long the body spray’s fragrance will be noticeable.

  “Oh, I’m going to a sleepover at Becki’s tomorrow night.”

  “Did you ask Dad?”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  She shrugs. “Well, leave a note. How are you getting there?”

  “Riding home after school.”

  “Sounds good. I won’t be here anyway.”

  She yawns and leans back into the couch. Please lie down, I say in my head, willing her to sink closer to the magic spot.

  “Any other plans for the weekend?” I ask.

  She shakes her head and yawns again. “Work and sleep.”

  She slides down a little more.

  “No parties or anything?”

  She snorts. “No, no parties.”

  She yawns one more time, and it takes over her whole face. That did it. She lets her head fall down to the other end of the couch and puts her feet up. It doesn’t happen instantly. In fact, I think she might fall asleep without noticing anything, but a few seconds later, I see her eyes fly open, and she grips the side of the couch. I hear a small intake of breath.

  “What’s up?”

  Her eyes narrow. “Nothing.”

  I turn back to the TV, but I angle myself so that I can still watch every move she makes, at least from the side. I can tell she’s trying to be sneaky. She turns over like she’s going to fall asleep, and I notice her take a deep breath. I wish I could see her face.

  She twists back around, and I blink, trying to make sure my eyes are still focused on the television. Come on, Paige. Tell me what you’re thinking. Or, at least, show me.

  She does. It’s just not exactly what I was hoping for. Paige stands. “I’m going to my room.”

  It’s practically a whisper, and her voice shakes as she says it.

  “Okay,” I say. “You all right?”

  She nods, but doesn’t say anything else. Later, she comes back downstairs to get her backpack. Her eyes are red and puffy. I want to tell her I’m sorry. And I even think I’ve made a huge mistake. Maybe I won’t do it again.

  But I’ve got to. I’ve got to see it through to know for sure. After all, things can’t get worse. Besides, I think it’s like Mom used to say about dinner: “No dessert if you don’t eat something green.” Paige used to claim that green Jell-O should count. My mom would laugh and list all kinds of things where you had to have something bad happen before the good could come. “Spring follows winter. Birth follows labor—”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll eat the stupid broccoli.”

  It might hurt, but I’m hoping there will be dessert at the end of this.

  Chapter Seven

  My alarm clock is a hammer that hits me over the head again and again. I swat at it and fall back asleep, twice. I stayed up way too late last night reading ghost stories and thinking up new experiments. I didn’t want Paige or my dad to see light under the door and come in to find me with my charts and ghost research, so I turned off the lights and hid under my covers, using a flashlight to see my notes. I must have dozed off, because the flashlight is still on next to me, and I’m tucked under my bedspread. It’s still dark out, but I throw the covers off and stand, stretching. I shake the fog away and go over my plan in my head. Since I’m going to the sleepover right after school, if I want to get another haunting under way, it has to be before I wake up Paige.

  I came up with this plan last night, and it’s genius, if I say so myself. Paige uses an old cloth messenger bag for school every day. I pop downstairs and go straight to our family’s Great Eyesore, as my mom used to call it. We don’t have a real mudroom. Just a bunch of hooks on the wall as you come in from the garage. Jackets, umbrellas, a
nd book bags all hang crookedly, while shoes are piled up on the floor below. Paige’s bag didn’t even make it onto a hook last night; she must have tossed it on the floor when she got home. Most of the bag is red and white striped canvas, but the strap is just white—grayed from use, but white. I grab the bottle of sunscreen and apply just a little to my hands, then rub it into the bottom of the strap. Just enough so she’ll notice the smell most of the day, but it might be hard for her to figure out why. I wash my hands and run back upstairs to get her moving.

  I’m surprised to find my dad’s door isn’t shut. It’s wide open. And when I stick my head inside, I discover that he’s not there.

  I listen for a second in case he’s in the bathroom, but there are no sounds. He must have come home at some point, but then where did he go? I don’t get an answer until after I’m showered and dressed. I’m dousing a bowl of Rice Krispies—or rather, the generic Crispy Rice—with milk, when I notice noise coming from the family room. I set my bowl down and walk over to the door. The TV is on, and my dad is sprawled out on the couch.

  He must hear me come in because he says, “Mornin’.”

  “How long have you been up?” I ask.

  “Pretty much all night.”

  That explains the empty bedroom. “Couldn’t sleep?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Do you need anything?” I ask. “Are you sick?”

  “Nah, just bad dreams, you know?” He turns away from me and rubs his face.

  “I do,” I say softly.

  I leave him and head back to my cereal. By now, Paige has made her way to the kitchen and is filling up a bowl of her own. “Eat it while we got it, right?”

  I nod and chew.

  “So he’s out there?”

  I nod again. And chew some more.

  “Must be something in the water.” She pauses, puts the box of cereal back in the cabinet, then adds, “Or the air.”

  I gulp my Crispy Rice. “Huh?”