Kat Dubois Chronicles

by Lindsey Sparks

“We need to do some research.” I met his eyes. “On ghosts.”

  Believe it or not, the authorities weren’t really taking the whole haunted high school thing seriously. Other than reports filed after a few unexplained incidents earlier in the week that resulted in minor injuries, there was no evidence that police other than the officer posted there full-time had even visited the school. There wasn’t even anything in their records about the kids who’d been found unconscious, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the school had even reported the incidents.

  “There’s nothing else?” I asked Garth as I stared at him over the screens of our laptops. He wouldn’t let me into the police database all by myself, so I had to settle for accessing the info through him, one of Seattle’s former finest. “No ‘we’re keeping an eye on it’ tag or anything like that?”

  Garth shook his head. He was sitting across from me at the little tea table in his room, minor awkwardness and genuine friendship the only other things between us. “My guess is they think it’s all a senior prank.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Seriously? You really think some teens could coordinate a hoax like this with the whole school?”

  Garth lifted one shoulder. “You’d be surprised what kids are capable of . . .”

  I snorted. “Trust me, bud, I know.” Considering that I’d been seventeen years old when I made the decision to sacrifice my ability to age further in order to activate my Nejeret traits and enter the echoes to save Lex, and I’d barely been eighteen when I decided that going after Mari was a peachy idea, I had a pretty good idea of the capabilities of teenagers.

  “I saw the ghosts—or whatever,” I reminded him. “This is real.”

  Garth rubbed the side of his face with one hand, his faint stubble making a scratching noise. “You know that,” he said, “and I know that, but they don’t.”

  I lowered my eyes to my own computer screen and started typing in the internet search bar: Newport High School haunting real.

  “What’s your plan?” Garth asked.

  “See what unofficial info is out there about this,” I told him, already skimming the search results.

  “I’ll help,” Garth said, refocusing on his computer screen.

  We spent nearly two hours like that, sharing what little useful information we found among the heaps of bullshit. I was about ready to give up and give the cards another shot—as daunting as that sounded after the last reading—when Garth leaned in closer to his computer screen. His eyes moved back and forth rapidly as he read through whatever he’d found. A gold mine, from the looks of it.

  “What?” I stood partway, craning my neck to get an upside-down view of his screen. He was on a message board of some kind. “What’d you find?”

  “A site called Super Truthers,” Garth said without looking up. “Apparently it’s a hub for people to gather and discuss conspiracies to cover up major supernatural phenomena.”

  “That’s a real thing?” Frowning, I pushed my chair back and came around to his side of the little table. Super Truthers, indeed, was a real thing. “Cool,” I said, coming to stand behind him. I bent over, resting my forearms on the top rail of his chair and skimming the screen over his shoulder.

  “See,” Garth said, pointing to the screen, “each of these threads is about a different ‘event’ that’s supposedly been covered up.” He touched his fingertip to the screen and scrolled down the page with a flick of his finger. There were hundreds—maybe thousands—of entries on the message board. With another flick of his finger, he scrolled back to the newer entries at the top of the page. “Look at that.”

  The topmost entry under the pinned “Rules of the Super Truthers Board” post was titled “Newport High School—Poltergeists or Shadow People?”

  “Shadow people?” I read aloud. It sounded pretty accurate. “What’s that?”

  Garth clicked on the thread, taking us to a new page. “It’s one of the seven classes of hauntings—intelligent, demonic, demonic possession, residual, poltergeist, elementals, and shadow people.”

  I stared at the side of Garth’s face.

  After a few seconds, he leaned away, meeting my confounded stare. “What?”

  “How the hell do you know that?” I narrowed my eyes. “Or did you just pull that out of your ass?”

  A faint flush colored Garth’s cheeks, and he looked away, returning his attention to the screen. “I watch a lot of shows about ghost hunting, alright? It’s just a thing that I find fascinating.”

  I was still staring at him. It was like I didn’t know him at all. Which, I supposed, I didn’t, not really. A few days of great sex hardly leads one to really get to know a person. Now that we were working on being just friends, no body parts to distract each other with, we were bound to learn all kinds of interesting—and surprising—things about one another.

  “Stop it,” Garth said without looking at me.

  I suppressed a laugh and turned my outward attention to the screen. “Stop what?”

  “Judging me.”

  I coughed to cover up the tiny, choking laugh that escaped. Garth liked ghost hunting shows. I don’t know why, but I totally loved that about him.

  “So,” I said, voice tight with restrained amusement, “tell me the truth—did you really just stumble upon this website, or did you already know about it?”

  Garth straightened his posture and cleared his throat, but he kept his mouth shut.

  “Fine.” I gave his shoulder a squeeze, then stood up. “Don’t tell me.” I headed back to my chair and sat, pulling up the Super Truthers website on my computer.

  We’d been perusing the NHS thread for fifteen minutes or so when I felt the distinct sensation of being watched. I glanced at Garth. He was staring at me, but his expression wasn’t one of “Ah-ha!” It was filled with concern, and my stomach turned into a bottomless sinking pit.

  “What?” I said, returning my focus to a post listing other locations reporting similar paranormal activity to Newport’s over the past couple weeks.

  According to the post, each and every location had been an overflow site for area hospitals during the Cascade Virus outbreak. And each place had had a pretty hefty death toll, if the numbers posted were to be believed. Each location was either a middle school, a high school, a college, or a community center—specifically youth-focused community centers. I knew for a fact that tons of other types of buildings had been used for hospital overflow; either the poster was only reporting handpicked information, or whatever was going on seemed to be centered around places that young people frequented. That thought sent a chill up my spine.

  I clicked on the poster’s name—ghoulgirl25—then chose the option from a pop-up menu to send her a message.

  Hi ghoulgirl25,

  I saw your post in the thread about the hauntings at Newport High School. Can you share where you got your information? And when you were researching, did you notice if other places like businesses or hospitals have been reporting similar occurrences?

  “So,” Garth said, drawing out the word, “since we’re on the topic of ghosts and dead people . . .”

  I looked at him over the computer screen, but just for a second before resuming typing.

  I’m writing an article for my school paper, and I’d like to have as accurate of information as possible. Us believers have to stick together, right?

  “And you’re the most recent person I know to have died,” Garth continued.

  Shit. Another person trying to get me to talk about that whole dying incident. Garth’s not-so-subtle subject change was my cue to leave.

  Can’t wait to hear back from you!

  I paused, not sure what name to sign off with. I didn’t need this chick to get any bright, suspicious ideas about who I really was. I quickly typed my mom’s name—Genevieve—then pressed send.

  “Well,” I said, snapping my laptop shut as soon as I’d sent the message. “Thanks for this.” I reached across the table and patted the top of Garth’s head. “It’s been
real.” I tucked my laptop under my arm and headed for the door.

  “Kat, wait.”

  I paused with my hand on the door handle. “I can’t talk about it, Garth,” I said softly. Honestly. “I just can’t.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I walk along the main hallway of Newport High School. It’s beyond abandoned; it’s devastated. Lockers hang open, many off their hinges, their contents strewn about the floor. The windows are broken, shattered pieces of glass covering debris on the floor like a layer of hail. Glass crunches under the thick soles of my boots with each step, and I have to pick my way carefully to avoid tripping.

  It’s dark out, and the air in the school is freezing, or maybe below freezing. Each breath brings a thick puff of white visible even in the darkness. I shiver, unconsciously hugging myself for warmth.

  I hear a whisper behind me and spin around.

  Nothing’s there.

  When I turn back around, I catch a glimpse of a tall, dark figure disappearing down the wing shooting off to the right, just up ahead.

  “Hey!” I call out, picking up the pace. It’s slow going, but I’m making progress. “Wait up!”

  I reach the corner and peer down the smaller hallway. It looks much the same as the main hall, with the spooky addition of a flickering light coming from one of the classrooms a few doors down on the right. There’s no sign of the person I just saw.

  Every cell in my body is screaming for me not to go down that hallway, but the flickering light beckons me. When I reach the door to the classroom and peer through the tall, narrow window, I suck in a breath. There’s someone in the room, alright, but not the person I caught a glimpse of just moments ago.

  It’s Alison—Ms. Cramer. She’s sprawled on the floor on her back, lying in a pool of her own blood. Her skin is covered in deep cuts, shards of glass still lodged in many. Her chest rises and falls with short, shallow breaths, open eyes searching the ceiling but clearly seeing something else entirely. Somewhere else.

  The window must’ve blown out right in front of her. The glass shrapnel plugging her wounds was probably the only thing keeping her alive this long; without it, she’d have bled out long before I found her.

  I try the door handle, but it’s locked, so I reach through the glassless window and unlock it. Once the door is open, I rush to Alison’s side, dropping to my knees on the floor. Shards of glass cut through my jeans and bite into my skin, but I don’t care. I’ll heal. She might not.

  “Alison?” I find her hand, one of the few untouched parts of her body, and give it a gentle squeeze. “Can you hear me?”

  She blinks several times, fresh tears streaking down over her temples. “Kat? Is—is that you?”

  “Yes,” I tell her, gripping her hand more tightly.

  She’s already lost her ability to see. Her brain is shutting down. She doesn’t have much time left. I think about calling 911, but by the time an ambulance gets here, she’ll be gone. Vengeance is the only thing left for me to offer her.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “The field—” She’s struggling for breath. “I tried to—to get to my phone to—to call you . . .”

  “Shhh . . .” I stroke the back of her hand. “Just breathe.”

  She swallows painfully, making blood ooze from the wounds in her neck. “They—they came . . . for us . . . at the f—football field.” She coughs, sputtering out pink saliva. “You weren’t there . . . to stop them.” She sucks in a stuttering breath. “Too late—you weren’t . . . there . . .” As her breath leaves her lungs, her eyes grow unfocused.

  She’s gone.

  I stare at the body before me. Seconds ago, it belonged to a woman I knew. A friend. Someone who saved my life, once, not so long ago. And now I’ve failed to save hers.

  “Damn it,” I hiss, eyes burning. My emotions are all tangled up, and I have to force myself to think straight.

  I stare out through the broken windows, replaying her choppy explanation in my mind. The football field—something happened there. Something I was too late to stop. But what?

  I stand and jog to the wall of broken windows, hurtling over the jagged edge. Once I’m outside, the way is easier. I run around both buildings, heading for the football field. I slow to a walk as I drew near the chain link fence surrounding the track and field.

  “Holy shit,” I whisper.

  The green turf is barely visible underneath the layer of bodies sprawled over the one-hundred-plus yards of frosted green. Not a single person moves. Not a single person’s chest rises and falls. Just one heartbeat pounds in my ears—my own.

  I take one more step toward the field, then stop. Alison was right. I’m too late.

  I hear whispering behind me, the sound growing to a dull roar. Whispering accompanied by no other signs of life. No heartbeats. No breaths.

  I close my eyes, already knowing what I’ll find behind me—the things that did this. The shadows. I open my eyes, inhaling and exhaling shakily. My breath comes out in a puff of white. Fear paralyzes me. I have to turn around, but I can’t. I’m too afraid.

  Something brushes against my hair, and I scream.

  I was still screaming when I woke, sitting up and drenched in a cold sweat. The sheets were saturated, making them nearly impossible to untangle from my legs.

  Had it been just a nightmare? Or was this another echo—a vision of a possible future? Had the universe funneled another hint at what was to come into my dreams? What if this was the beginning of the big danger Isfet had warned me about? What if she was the only one who could stop it? What if that was the whole point of all of this?

  Someone pounded on my bedroom door.

  I jumped, scooting back on the bed, legs still knotted in the sheets. I clutched a pillow to my chest and stared at the door like it might start spewing shadows into my room.

  “Kat?” It was Nik.

  I exhaled, relief flooding my body.

  “Are you alright?”

  I stared at the door. Was I alright? Either I was so into myself that my subconscious had cooked up a scenario where my noninvolvement in the haunting situation would lead to a massive loss of life, or the dream was real. It was the future, or at least a possible future. I was absolutely not alright.

  “I’m coming in,” Nik called through the door. I could hear him fitting a key made of At into the lock on the other side.

  “No,” I said, finally finding my voice. I didn’t want him to see me like this. But it was too late.

  Nik pushed the door open and stepped into my bedroom. His eyes landed on me for only a fraction of a second before hastily scanning the rest of the room.

  “I’m fine,” I told him, fingers working to untangle the sheets. “Just a bad dream, is all.”

  Nik walked over to the nightstand and reached under the lampshade to turn on the light. His sweats rode low on his hips, revealing the band of his underwear, like he’d barely had time to pull them on, and is hair was disheveled from sleep. It only added to his sex appeal, which made me all the more self-conscious as his pale blue eyes took in everything—the sweat-soaked sheets, my struggle to free myself, me.

  “A dream,” he said, “or an echo?”

  At last, I managed to free my legs, but the nightmare’s terrifying hold on me remained, and I sucked in a shaky breath. “I don’t know,” I admitted. I glanced at the nightstand, thinking of the cards tucked away in the top drawer. They might hold the answers . . . or they might unveil more questions.

  “Was it about the school?” Nik asked.

  I sighed, brushing damp tendrils of hair back from my face. “Yeah,” I told him as I rolled to the far edge of the bed and stood. Could I risk that the dream had only been a dream? Not if it was real . . . not if it was a true echo.

  I marched around the bed, past Nik, and straight to the open doorway. Heru needed to know what I’d seen. I needed to unload the decision of whether or not to believe it was an echo onto his shoulders. If he wanted me to stay out of it, fine. B
ut the consequences were on him, then.

  I stepped into the hallway and almost ran headlong into Heru. I stumbled back a few steps, planting a hand on the wall to stabilize myself. “Jesus . . .” I eyed him. “We need to get you a bell.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched.

  “Are you alright?” Lex asked, rushing past Heru and heading straight for me. “We heard you scream, and—”

  I held up a hand, keeping her away from my sweaty self. “I had another dream-echo,” I said, sounding surer than I felt. “The shadows—there’s going to be a massacre at the school . . . on the football field.”

  “When?” Heru asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “Nighttime—it was dark.”

  I closed my eyes, recalling everything I’d seen in the classroom where I’d found Alison. There’d been a clock on the wall, the plastic face cracked and the second hand frozen. “There was a clock stopped at 9:07,” I told Heru. Eyes still closed, I continued to search the walls of the classroom for any indicator of the date, but the whiteboard was wiped clean, and I hadn’t seen any form of a calendar. I pressed my lips together, once again shaking my head, and opened my eyes. “I don’t know the date.”

  Heru studied my face. I had no idea what he saw there, but whatever it was, it convinced him that the dream was real. “I’ll make some calls,” he said. “I’ll make sure the school gets shut down until we can figure out what’s going on there.”

  I exhaled in relief, some of the tension from the dream leaving my shoulders.

  “It may take a few days, though,” Heru added. “I want to be discreet. If we can avoid it, I don’t want this coming back to us.” He leveled his hawkish stare on me. “Let me know if you see anything new, anything that indicates the massacre will take place sooner, and I’ll do everything in my power to shut the school down immediately.”

  I nodded, then scrubbed my hands over my face. My skin was sticky with drying sweat. In five minutes, I would be crusted in salt. Shower time was imminent.

  “Do not go back there, Kat,” Heru said. “I know you want to help these people, but even once the school is closed, discretion is our number-one priority. The human world cannot be allowed to tie this to Nejeretkind, and you’re far too identifiable. It’s not worth the risk.”