by Jordan Ford
“But—”
The door slammed shut. Tristan sighed, scratching the back of his head with a confused frown. Pursing his lips, he wondered if he should try again, but he was pretty sure she wouldn’t bother answering him a second time.
He spun on his heel, shoving his hands into his worn jean pockets and jogging down the stairs. He opened the gate and walked straight into the two anxious boys.
“Whoa!” Little Red fell onto his backside.
His friend bent down to help him up while Tristan closed the gate.
“Sorry, guys. I don’t think we’re going to have much luck.”
“Oh no, Matty.” Little Red looked at his friend, his face bunching with sympathy as the bigger boy started to cry.
“Dad’s gonna kill me.”
“It’s okay, man.” Tristan shrugged. “I’m sure he’ll understand. Hey, I’ll even replace it with a brand-new ball. How about that?” He lightly tapped the boy’s shoulder, trying to coax a smile out of him—anything to ease the guilt knotting his stomach.
“You don’t get it! That was Grandpa’s last gift to me. I wasn’t supposed to be playing with it outside, but I really wanted to hit a home run with it. He would have loved that.” Matty sucked in a shaky breath, slashing tears off his dirty cheeks.
Tristan frowned, feeling even worse. His guilt was only amplified when Little Red muttered, “His grandpa died a couple weeks ago.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Tristan clenched his jaw and looked over his shoulder at the house. He narrowed his gaze at the vine-wrapped tower and wondered.
Don’t be an idiot.
Matty sucked in a shaky breath as a fresh wave of tears lined his lashes and began to fall.
Shit! Be an idiot, then!
Clearing his throat, Tristan ignored the voice in his head and gave the boys a tight smile. “Don’t worry about it, kid. I’ll get your ball back.”
“How?” His lips quivered.
“Those vines are pretty thick. I think I can climb up to the window.”
“Are you crazy?” Little Red squeaked. “What about the ghost?”
Tristan chuckled and headed for his driveway, calling over his shoulder as he went. “Just stay here, all right?”
Running past his house, he wove around to the back of the garage. He couldn’t just waltz straight onto the property. The posh lady was no doubt watching from her window.
His best point of entry was over the back fence, as far from the house as possible.
Jumping up, he grabbed the edge of the tall fence and scrambled up the wood. He vaulted over the other side and landed in the unkempt lawn. The long grass swallowed his Converses as he snuck towards the house.
6
The Ghost in the Tower
Dry sticks and dead debris snapped and crackled beneath Tristan’s feet while the ominous trees loomed large. Dusk was just starting to set in, the blue sky a shade darker than it had been an hour earlier. It gave the disheveled yard a creepy vibe and Tristan questioned himself several times as he snuck towards the vine-wrapped tower.
Why the hell was he doing this for some kid he didn’t even know?
He moved forward anyway, staying low and eyeing the house for any sudden movements. It was probably intrigue more than anything that had him stopping at the bottom of the tower and analyzing the vines. They were a thick mass of interweaving roots. Tristan ran his fingers over the rough exterior, skeptical it could hold his weight. Then he noticed a rickety trellis buried beneath it all. It probably couldn’t hold his weight either, but maybe the combination of the vines and trellis together would be enough.
Gazing up the tall tower, Tristan couldn’t deny the sense of danger and the voice of reason screaming at him to back away. He ignored it, placing his hands against the trellis and pulling himself up until he could reach a decent enough foothold. Shoving the toe of his shoe into the tiny trellis cavity, he leaned into the vine and used the power in his legs to push a little higher.
He’d always been a good climber—long and lean, with strong muscles that weren’t bulky. It was easy for him to bear his weight. His mother had spent years calling him a monkey and laughing nervously before ordering him to not climb so high.
His lips twitched at the memory and he pushed himself a little higher. Yeah, it was risky—the vines could snap or rip away from the house at any moment—but he struggled to think when he’d last felt so alive.
He was climbing up a forbidden tower that quite possibly housed a ghost. That was kind of cool.
With a grunt, Tristan pulled himself up the last few feet, until his fingertips were gripping the dirty window ledge. Shuffling up the rest of the vine, he tiptoed on the top rung of the trellis and hauled himself through the open window.
Gripping the edge of a low bookcase, he wriggled his legs and pulled himself through, landing with a thud on the shiny wooden floor.
His face bunched with confusion as he studied the immaculate attic. Overstuffed bookcases lined the walls, but they weren’t covered in dust. A trunk sat in the corner, clothes neatly hanging on a freestanding rack behind it. A large desk with a computer was sitting in the corner next to a high shelf that housed labeled trays—English, Math, Humanities…
Tristan looked behind him, his lips parting at a luminous living space that housed a comfy-looking sofa and a huge pile of pillows.
Every surface was spotless, not a speck of dust or grime to be seen.
What kind of attic is this?
Tristan rose to his feet, wiping his grimy hands on his butt and easing into the room. He had to be quick, grab the baseball and run, but curiosity pulled him farther into the room. Peeking his head around the corner, he spotted a craft table laden with beads, buttons, ribbons, wonky scissors, stamps, and every colored card imaginable. Hanging above it on clear, nylon strings were a collection of perfectly constructed origami cranes. Tristan tipped his head, enchanted by the way they spun and swayed. Stepping towards them, he lifted his finger to touch one. That’s when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye.
It was just a shadow in the edge of the room—at least he thought it was, until it moved.
He jumped back with a gasp, his heart thundering in his chest as he caught sight of a large pair of pale green eyes.
He backed away from the ghostly white hand reaching for him and crashed into a wooden chest, losing his balance and tumbling onto his backside.
“Stay back!” He scrambled away from the ghoulish creature, his breath evaporating as it stepped into the light.
It was the girl.
The one who was murdered by her mother.
Ghosts do not exist! This is insane! I don’t believe in ghosts!
Tristan’s mind screamed the words while his pounding heart and light head told him he was lying.
The ghost’s long blonde hair, so pale it was nearly white, hung over her skinny shoulders, reaching down to her hips. She was wearing a navy blue turtleneck sweater, making her white skin look even more translucent. Her skinny legs were wrapped in pale pink tights and she was wearing a pair of fluffy UGG boots.
It was a weird thing for a ghost to wear, but maybe she’d had them on the day she died. The guys failed to tell Tristan she was a teenager. At least she looked like one anyway. Kind of pretty too.
She took a step towards him, her green eyes lighting with a soft smile.
“S-stay back.” Tristan raised his hand to stop her.
Her lips rose into a playful grin, her pointy little nose twitching when she laughed. “Shouldn’t I be saying that to you? You’re the one who just broke into my house.” She had an accent, much like her mother’s, but not quite so strong and la-di-da.
The ghost is talking. Oh crap, the ghost is talking to me!
Tristan’s vision was blurring as a dizzy fear swamped him.
“Please don’t kill me.” He swallowed. “I just came to get a baseball. I swear, I won’t come back again.”
“Kill you?�
� Her thin eyebrows wrinkled. “I’m not that annoyed.”
“I know what you are.” Tristan pointed at her, his finger trembling.
“You mean a girl?”
“A ghost,” he whispered.
She giggled, a sweet, melodic sound. “I’m not a ghost.”
“Don’t trick me.” Tristan’s blurry vision made way for a spark of anger. The room came clear as his survival instincts kicked in.
“I’m not.” She spread her hands wide. “Here, look.” Stepping past him, the girl moved to the couch and collected something from between the cushions, holding it out with a triumphant grin.
Tristan studied the baseball in her hand, but was distracted by her radiant smile. It took over her entire face, raising her cheekbones, narrowing her eyes and emitting such a sunny vibe that it was impossible for his lips not to twitch in return.
“If I was a ghost I wouldn’t be able to hold this, would I?” She giggled.
Still trying to wrap his brain around the bizarre experience, Tristan rubbed his eyes and fumbled to his feet.
She stretched out her long, pale fingers. “Go on, touch my hand. You’ll see I’m real.”
He shook his head. It had become his instinctual response to most things of late, so it kind of happened before he realized.
“Chicken.” Her smile grew even more dazzling as she laughed a little harder.
Tristan couldn’t stop staring at her, entranced by the way her pale green eyes danced as she teased him.
As the unexpected fright wore off and made way for his standard skepticism, Tristan started to think logically again. It was a huge relief, and Tristan had to fight a smile as the crazies fluttered out of his head. Reaching forward, he took her hand, the pads of his fingers sliding over her soft palm before he wrapped them around her slender hand.
She gripped back, her smile softening. “I’m Helena Thompson.”
“Tristan Parker,” he croaked.
“Well, my crazy new friend, it’s nice to meet you.” She winked, and something inside of Tristan started to unfurl.
7
A Shining Light
“Helena,” Tristan repeated her name softly.
She nodded. “It means shining light, which I think is simply beautiful, so I do my very best to live up to that.”
Tristan’s lips twitched with a bemused grin.
“Do you have any idea what Tristan means?” Her face was so open and innocent—wide green eyes, elegant eyebrows the palest brown. There was something very enchanting and beautiful about her.
It was hard not to stare.
She tipped her head, looking like a curious sparrow as she studied him.
Tristan blinked and forced his eyes to the wooden floor. Finally he registered her question and shook his head. “No, I don’t.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll have to look that up later, but in the meantime let’s just make something up.” Her eyebrows rose and she looked to the ceiling in thought, oblivious to the fact that she was still holding his hand and acting like no other teenage girl he had ever met in his life. “How about faint-hearted wanderer?”
He grimaced, his head jolting back. “What? No. I don’t—that’s awful. I don’t want to be that.”
“Hmmm.” She tapped her chin. “You’re right, not very complimentary, but so far that’s all I know of you. However, I’m sure you can change my mind.” Her grin captured him again and he was rendered speechless.
“Let’s see.” She let go of his hand, replacing it with the baseball before walking to the window. Tristan slid the ball into his hoodie pocket and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together as he watched her glide across the room.
Placing her delicate hands on the frame, she peered out the window, her hair forming a curtain around her. Tristan was still completely mystified by the strange girl, but it was a pleasant mix of intrigue and wonder.
She popped back into the room, flicking her hair out of her face and pulling it over one shoulder.
“Well, I must say, the climb was very impressive, so for that I am going to change the meaning of your name to faint-hearted adventurer.” She grinned.
He frowned. “I’m still not loving the faint-hearted part.”
Her expression turned from gleeful to astute, her eyes taking on a compassionate glow. “Me neither, but we’re going to work on that.”
Tristan’s lips parted, his brow creasing with confusion.
A creak on the stairs below made Helena flinch. Her green eyes bulged for a moment before she caught herself and flashed Tristan a jumpy smile.
“Now who’s faint-hearted?” His eyes narrowed, his expression smug.
Helena rolled her eyes with a self-deprecating smile. “There’s a difference between being fearful of a non-ghost and knowing you’re about to face a dragon.”
“A dragon?” Tristan glanced over his shoulder at the attic door.
“Just go,” she whispered, gripping his arm and genuinely looking scared.
He hesitated, suddenly swamped by an overwhelming urge to move in front of the beautiful girl. He needed to prove her faint-hearted theory wrong.
“Please.” Her fingers dug into his upper arm as she tried to yank him towards the window. “Go.”
He nearly tripped over her, catching her fragile body against his chest and steadying them both. Her expression melted to a look of wonder, her long fingers stroking his arm as she gazed at him. A loud creak just outside the door broke the spell and snapped her into action.
She jumped out of his arms and pushed him towards the open window before shuffling across the floor. Tristan swung his leg out, sitting on the sill, reluctant to leave.
She flicked her hand at him, her expression cresting with panic as the door handle turned. She snapped away from him, her fine hair rising in the air as she spun.
With a silent curse, Tristan shuffled out the window.
“Is everything all right?” Helena’s question was high and pitchy.
Tristan cringed as he carefully slid down the edge of the tower, clinging to the window ledge as he struggled to find his footing.
“For God’s sake, Helena, I was up here only moments ago closing this window! It’s too cold, and you know I like everything shut up by nightfall.”
The wooden frame snapped shut just as Tristan’s fingers left the sill. Clinging to the vine, he leaned against the house and sucked in a relieved breath. The faint sound of muffled shouting made him cringe.
He hated the idea of anyone yelling at that sweet girl, and couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to raise her voice at such a fascinating, captivating human being.
Captivating? What am I, a poet? What the hell is wrong with me?
With a rueful grin, Tristan shook his head and began a careful descent. As soon as he was confident he could jump and land without snapping anything, Tristan let go of the trellis and dropped to the ground, bending his knees to soften the blow.
Sneaking back the way he came, Tristan looked over his shoulder one last time, hoping for a brief glimpse of Helena. But the tower window was empty, and all he could hope was “the dragon” hadn’t done anything to harm her.
As he climbed the fence, Tristan was haunted by the flash of fear in her eyes. He landed on the other side with a pensive frown.
“Hey! He’s back! He’s back!”
Tristan didn’t even make it halfway down his driveway. The two boys bounded up to him, talking at the same time and throwing questions at him like he was the President at a news conference.
He dug into his pocket and held up the baseball in an attempt to shut them up.
It worked.
Sort of.
They went silent for a split second before letting out two breathy “whoas.” Tristan handed the ball to Matty, who smiled at him like he was his new hero.
The kid was too amazed to speak, staring at the precious ball and then back up at him while blinking furiously to ward off the tears.
“Don’t worry about it, kid.” T
ristan buried his hands in his hoodie pockets.
“Did you see the ghost? You were gone so long we thought she might have eaten you.” Little Red’s thin lips parted as he waited for the juicy story.
Tristan scoffed and shook his head, gazing over at the “haunted” house.
The truth was on the tip of his tongue, but for some reason he wasn’t ready to share it.
Instead, he shrugged. “No ghost, guys, just an old attic filled with junk. That’s why I took so long—the baseball had rolled under a couch and it took me a minute to find it.”
“Wow. You’re so brave.” Matty finally found his voice.
“Yeah.” Tristan’s reply was a half-hearted whisper.
Not according to the blonde princess in the tower he wasn’t. He wished he could figure out how to prove her wrong. He wished he could figure out why he even wanted to.
With their game restored, and no hope of a decent ghost story, the boys raced back to the park. Tristan let them go, waving when they turned to shout a final thank you.
Trudging up his back steps, Tristan placed his hand on the kitchen doorknob and looked over the fence to the tower that housed a shining light. His stomach bunched into a tight knot—a mixture of curiosity and wonderment. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to see the strange girl again. Being called faint-hearted was hardly something to return for, but as he stepped into his house and lost sight of the tower, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going to pull him back there again.
8
Faint-hearted
Tristan parked his bike outside school and bolted it to the stand. Hitching his bag onto his shoulder, he prepped himself for another day. He wasn’t really in the mood for school, but when was he ever?
To his bewilderment, all he felt like doing was jumping the fence and climbing a tower. It was all he’d been able to think about the night before as he lay in bed listening to his dad snoring on the couch downstairs. He hadn’t had the strength or willpower to move the big guy, so he’d covered him with a blanket instead.