by Husk, Shona
The house that had been his childhood home had changed. The paint was different, the furniture was newer and in different places. But it was here he’d felt safe, as if nothing could ever go wrong. Of course at ten his world view had centered around himself. Something brushed against his hand. Tate looked down but saw nothing. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling someone was holding his hand. The heat on his skin, the pressure and the roughness. His father.
Tate paused at the bottom of the staircase and closed his eyes. At first he heard nothing except whispers of his name that made him shiver. Then he heard it clearly—his father was talking. While he couldn’t make out the words, they were warm. He hadn’t realized he’d been cold. He tried to will himself there, to tell his father he was okay, but nothing happened except the pain in his head that came whenever he tried to get back to his body. He touched his skull to reassure himself that it wasn’t broken. He didn’t know what the doctors had done in the operation but it hadn’t fixed the dull throbbing.
The stairs didn’t creak as he went up them. They used to. He’d gotten told off many times for sliding down the banister. His mother had worried he’d break his arm. What would she say now? What was his father saying?
There were so many things he hadn’t said to either of his parents. His throat tightened. He would get back to his body and wake up—the alternative was too awful to contemplate. What if he never woke up and remained in a coma? Is that what his parents thought now? Was that why he was wandering around? Was he that badly hurt?
Panic fluttered in his stomach, or where his stomach should be. The accident hadn’t been that bad. He didn’t feel too mangled. Then he realized it was the headache that was serious. Had his brain been damaged? How would he know? There was no one he could ask. He needed to know how badly he was hurt. What were his odds of survival? And that would change what? Would that help him? Probably not.
What about Ruby? Was she alive? Her spirit wandering like his? Maybe when they both woke up they’d be able to compare notes on what it was like to be caught in between life and death. And the mist? He must have dreamed it. He needed to believe she was fine, because even though he didn’t love her anymore he couldn’t imagine not seeing her around. He should never have given her the lift home.
He went up the stairs, not sure what he was looking for, only that he had to keep moving instead of thinking. The answer to getting back to his body might be here. If it wasn’t, he’d be stuck haunting the place and spying on someone else’s happy family. The door to his old bedroom was open so he glanced inside, keen to see who was now using his house.
The bedside light was on, but the woman in the bed was sleeping. Her dark hair was spread over the pillow. He took a step closer. She looked familiar. The room looked familiar, and not just because it had once been his. Memories flickered past in rapid succession. The accident, the lights, the darkness, this room. Realization hollowed his stomach. He’d come here after the accident.
In a few steps he crossed the room and stood in the middle where he had stood last night, confused and hurting. Nothing much had changed in those few hours. He turned slowly, taking in the whole of the room until he faced the bed and the young woman. She’d spoken to him last night.
She’d seen him.
And now she was sleeping with the light on. Tate tilted his head. Had he scared her?
Of course he had. A strange man in her room. A strange ghost in her room. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
He should go, yet he didn’t move. This woman had been able to see him. Maybe she could help him. Or maybe she’d scream and tell him to leave. Is that what had happened last night?
The woman stirred and opened her eyes with a snap as if she could sense him. Her gaze settled on him immediately and she sat up. “You’re back.”
Chapter Three
Eloise wasn’t sure she’d be able to hear his reply over the pounding of her blood in her ears. She reached out a hand to the salt she’d put on the bedside table. After seeing him the first time she hadn’t been able to go back to sleep. She’d listened to the sirens, and eventually she’d gotten up, got some salt—not sure if it would work in real life the way it did on TV—and put it around her bed. She must have fallen asleep with the light on. Not that she needed it on now; sunlight was spilling into her room and through the injured ghost man. He hadn’t moved.
“What do you want?” she said with more bravery than she felt as she fingered the salt, ready to throw it at him if he tried something. “Why are you here?” Was he haunting her?
He seemed to swallow before speaking. Did ghosts swallow? Or was it a reflex left over from living?
“I don’t know.” This time he wasn’t flickering. He seemed more solid.
She glanced at the carpet; he wasn’t dripping ghostly blood either. But she didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. “Why did you come back?”
“I used to live here, a bit more than ten years ago. This was my room.”
“Oh.” She looked at him again, a frown forming. He seemed familiar, like she should know him.
“You’ve seen me before.”
Eloise blinked and glanced away. Was he reading her mind? She swung her legs around so she sat on the edge of her bed, well aware she was in her comfy PJs and her hair probably looked awful. He is a ghost. Like it matters.
He was also a guy. A dead guy. There was always something wrong with the cute ones. And he was cute. Blond hair sweeping over his eyebrow, blue eyes that might have looked girly except the way they were placed in very masculine face.
“Last night, you came and stood in my room. Right there. You were dripping blood.” She pointed to where he was standing like he didn’t know what to do with himself. That niggling knowledge that she knew him didn’t fade. If she knew him, surely she’d remember, as he didn’t have the kind of face a girl forgot.
The ghost looked at the carpet. Of course there was no blood to find—she’d looked last night while trying to convince herself it was a bad dream brought on by too much coffee and too much study. Then he looked at his arm hanging awkwardly at his side. His leather jacket didn’t hide the unnatural twist.
“You’re not bleeding now…” Because he was dead. She put down the salt. He seemed too lost to be a threat. What was the right thing to say to a new ghost? “I’m sorry you’re dead.” That sounded pretty lame.
He raised one eyebrow. “I don’t think I’m dead.”
“Um, you’re a ghost in my house.” And if he wasn’t dead and a ghost, she was hallucinating which was worse, way worse.
“I can feel my father holding my hand. I can feel pain…not sharp, but…” He shrugged with his good shoulder. “Like an echo of pain. It still hurts, only I can’t control it or do anything about it.”
“Well if you’re not dead, shouldn’t you be in your body?” Eloise frowned. “Or are you astral projecting or something?”
“I can’t get back to my body.”
She pressed her lips together and nodded. He looked grim as well. Not being able to get back to his body, if he was alive, was bad. “You’ve tried.”
The ghost nodded. “I got a headache like the hangover from hell. I seem to be stuck between here and the accident.”
“The one last night?” Had she guessed right?
“You know what happened?”
“I heard the sirens. I saw you here. You looked—” she wanted to say scared but changed her mind, “—bad.” And he was hanging on her every word. “Then you vanished. You don’t remember.”
“Some of it,” he said like it really concerned him.
It would concern her too if she were missing memories and wandering around without a body. Maybe she could help him and then he’d be fine. She didn’t want him to die if he still had a chance to recover.
Eloise grabbed the TV remote of her bedside table. “Have a seat; let’s see if it made the news. Maybe it will help.” She glanced at him and he smiled. The tight kind people gave when they were e
mbarrassed to be needing help but were unable to refuse.
He tried to pull out the chair at her desk and failed. His hand passed through it. She watched him try again, fascinated. He couldn’t manipulate objects.
“I’ll stand.” He looked more confused than intrigued.
She got up and pulled it out for him, half expecting him to slide right through it and land on his ass. He didn’t. Cool…and a little weird. What else could he do?
“Thank you.” This time the smile seemed a little more genuine.
Eloise couldn’t help the curving of her own lips. “You can walk through doors.” Because that was the only way he could’ve gotten into the house. “You can go upstairs and sit on a chair, but you can’t pull it out.”
He frowned as if he hadn’t considered that before.
“Well I’m not falling through the floor, so maybe I can walk and sit on stuff but not move it.”
“Which is why you can’t open doors… Can you fall through the floor if you want?” She glanced at him, her curiosity getting the better of her. She’d never seen a ghost, or spirit, or whatever he was, before. And now she was having a conversation with one as if it was nothing odd.
“I don’t know.” He thought a moment and dropped through the chair and disappeared.
“Hey, come back!” She turned a full circle. She hadn’t really expected him to try. Maybe he was unsure what he could do too. If he only became separated from his body last night, this was rather new to him, and probably quite frightening. She didn’t know if she’d be quite as calm.
“I’m here,” he said as he walked back through the half-open door. “I won’t be doing that again. The landing is rather jarring.” He sat on the chair ready to watch the news.
Eloise sat on her bed and tapped the remote on her leg as another thought came to her. “Maybe you’re not meant to know what happened and that’s why you can’t get back to your body.”
“What do you mean?” He leaned back in the chair and studied her.
“Like when people see their injuries and they go into shock. Maybe your body is keeping you safe by not letting you see.” As she said it she realized she sounded really dumb. But then it was six a.m. and she was chatting to a ghost, so maybe he’d let it pass.
“I hadn’t thought of that.” He frowned and looked at the floor. “I’m sure I’ve been in surgery already. I can’t be too badly injured if I’m still alive.” But he didn’t sound overly convinced. He paused as if weighing his next words carefully. “I’d like to know what’s going on.”
Eloise bit her lip. She didn’t want him to die after learning what happened—was that even possible? She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything about him, but she wanted the chance to learn more. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve been to the accident scene. I’m stuck between here and there. Plus I need to know if Ruby is okay.”
Eloise stiffened. Ruby. Of course. Guys like him always had a girlfriend. Maybe learning the truth would zap his butt out of her room and he could be Ruby’s problem. The sharp edge of jealousy scraped over her skin. It wasn’t that she hadn’t had boyfriends, it was just that he was the kind of guy girls always looked at even though they knew they had no chance. And she was always one of those girls. Too smart, not quite cool. College had changed that—a little.
She’d find what he wanted and get rid of him.
Annoyed at herself for even allowing his insubstantial body to have an effect on her, she flicked on the TV and scrolled through several stations of music and kids’ cartoons before finding the morning news. The presenter talked about the shaky economy and riots in Europe before moving on to local news.
“Late last night a motorbike was hit by a car when it ran through a stop sign. While the rider is in critical condition, tragically the pillion passenger was killed at the scene. The driver of the white SUV is urged to come forward.” The news reader’s voice talked over a picture of a motorbike surrounded by police cars.
Eloise didn’t have to look at him to know that was his accident. She knew the street. Her friend lived around the corner. She could walk there, had walked past there, many times. And if Ruby was riding with him, she was dead.
She turned down the TV and glanced at him. The not-really-a-ghost looked like he’d just been kicked in the guts and couldn’t breathe. That kind of pained, pale look. Ruby had definitely been on the back of his bike. “I’m sorry.”
He closed his eyes. “I killed her.”
“No you didn’t.” She spoke calmly even though anger bubbled up at the injustice. “The driver of the car did.” Hit and run. Hopefully they would find the bastard.
They’d never found the driver who’d knocked her down while she’d been walking home from school. Who leaves a thirteen-year-old lying on the road? The same kind of prick who hits a motorbike and flees.
He shook his head. “She shouldn’t have been on my bike.” He opened his eyes, blue and loaded with pain. “I should have said no.” He stood. “Thank you.”
Eloise jumped up. “Wait—what’s your name?”
“Tate.”
Tate…she looked at him again. Tate and Ruby. That was how she knew him. He’d been two years ahead of her at school, always seen with his pretty and popular girlfriend. He must have been with her for years…and now she was dead. Eloise couldn’t begin to understand how awful he must feel. She didn’t know what to say. Before she could find the words, he walked out of her room leaving a sadness she could taste like the promise of a winter downpour.
Tate walked without seeing the road. He knew where he was going—back to the accident. It was that or back to the house, but he wanted to be alone. He wanted to see the scene again, as if going back would change what he’d heard the reporter say, what he already knew in his heart. There had to be a mistake. Every time he thought of Ruby being dead his mind rebelled. How could Ruby be dead when he’d seen her? Spoken to her?
Had he dreamed of her?
Or had the mist been real? It had seemed real at the time. Now it was like a dream that had melted in the daylight. But then all dreams felt real while they were being dreamed. The fear of the mist solidified as he remembered the details.
She’d been trying to draw him to her, into the mist. He suppressed the shiver that started at the base of his spine and ratcheted its way up to his skull. He didn’t like what he thought that meant and he certainly didn’t want to find himself there again. He looked up as he reached the crossroads now marked with police paint. There was nothing left of last night except some broken glass, skid marks and the paint. He studied each one, hoping it would explain exactly what had happened. He closed his eyes and tried to remember.
Headlights and metal. The car had clipped the bike and he’d lost control then become separated from it and Ruby. He’d been thrown clear, and he remembered sliding down the road. He glanced at the ripped leather jacket and the open wound beneath. His arm looked like raw meat wrapped in leather. His stomach tightened, but where nausea should have followed nothing happened. Of course not. He wasn’t made of flesh and blood. His reactions were…what? Memories of what he should be feeling? Echoes of emotions? How much of him was real?
He shook his head and focused on the scene. He turned around trying to work out where Ruby had been. When had she let go of him?
He opened his eyes and saw a dark patch on a concrete driveway. Around the dark was a rough outline. Cold cut through his body like a bitter wind. That was where Ruby had landed. He glanced up the road to where he’d finally stopped, and then to where the bike had ended up. It had missed him by a couple of feet. If the bike had hit him, he’d be dead already. If the car had hit him full-on, he’d be dead. He’d been so lucky.
Not like Ruby.
A wave of sorrow rushed up to drown him. He shouldn’t have waited for her. He should have taken off and left her at the party to make her own way home. They’d broken up just like he wanted. If he wasn’t such a sucker, she’d still be alive. He sat on the grass
, his head in his hands. He could never make this right.
He deserved to die.
The whispers became louder, like he could hear her calling him. He shivered as the morning air cooled around him. For a moment he thought he smelled her perfume—the one he’d bought for her eighteenth birthday and the one she’d worn ever since. A lump formed in his throat, his eyes burned and his chest constricted. Tears should be falling, but without a body he couldn’t even cry.
Eloise sat on her bed, waiting for Tate to come back, hoping he’d be back. No one should be alone at a time like this. And he was all alone, awake when he should be unconscious and unable to be with the people who loved him. She turned on the TV and watched some music clips. After half an hour she realized he wasn’t coming back. The tension she’d been holding onto began to break up. She didn’t have time for a ghost—or even a not-quite-a-ghost.
She hoped learning what had happened had helped him back to his body. At least there he would be free of thought until he woke up and reality had to be dealt with. How was he ever going to deal with the death of his girlfriend?
But if Ruby was his girlfriend, why shouldn’t she have been on his bike?
There was more to the accident than he was saying. But it wasn’t any of her business. Did she even want to get involved? Was she already involved? She looked around her room. Tate’s old room. He’d grown up here. A shiver ran over her skin, and she knew if he wasn’t in his body, he’d be back because he had nowhere else to go.
She needed to get up and get moving and get out of the house. She changed out of her PJs and into yoga pants and a T-shirt. There would be no sleeping in today, two brushes with ghost-Tate in one night and she was wide awake. She glanced at the books on her desk and guilt nibbled at her conscience. One more week and then exams. She needed more than a week. Unless she pulled an eighty-percent grade out of thin air she was going to fail microbiology. But spending the morning in her bedroom waiting for the ghost to come back wasn’t very appealing.