2. Try to stop the disaster, fail, and live with the guilt for the rest of my life. And still pass the curse on to someone else.
3. Die a hero but leave my family to grieve for another loved one.
I let myself imagine doing nothing, allowing others to be killed so I could keep breathing. What if only ten people were in danger? Five? What if only one person was doomed to die in the disaster—someone who’d already lived a long, happy life? Could I ignore it then?
Yes, I thought stubbornly, because I was young and had dreams, and because my family had already lost Momma.
No, I thought with my next breath. If I could save even one person—someone with their own dreams and family—then I had to try. I felt sick that I could even think about acting as Elsie had. So much for option one.
I skipped over option two, since I couldn’t bear to imagine letting all those people down.
Option three, then. Would it hurt to die? Maybe if it was just for a few seconds it wouldn’t be so bad. Especially if I ended up saving lives. Maybe people would put up a statue of me, or start a scholarship in my name.
I cringed. Somehow it always came back to my own selfish wants.
Maybe that was Edgar’s whole point.
So many questions nagged at me: Could Dad handle another loss? Would I become a ghost like John Goodrich? And the one question that had sunk its teeth into me and wouldn’t let go:
Would I see Momma again?
15
All the worrying was wasting precious time. I forced myself to focus. I was about to reach for one of John’s journals when a book from the storeroom caught my eye, called The Lingering Spirit. When I picked it up, it fell open to a dog-eared page with a chapter heading that read: Suicides, Violent Deaths, and Other Earthly Traumas.
I skimmed a highlighted passage: Certain types of deaths are prone to creating spirits that linger on earth rather than passing to the other side. Crime victims, suicides, and those with a strong sense of unfinished business are the most commonly encountered class of ghostly manifestations. Eyewitness accounts confirm that these spirits are more likely to exhibit characteristics of the living, such as speech, a realistic human form, and the ability to manipulate solid objects.
I read it again. Suddenly it all made sense. John was dying, so he had ended his life early as a last-ditch effort to stay in the game, to offer his help. How much help he’d actually provided seemed iffy at best, but at least his heart was in the right place.
Sighing, I stared at something odd on a corner of the desk. I realized it was the remains of Mason’s contraption, piled in a messy heap. I couldn’t help a fond chuckle. It hadn’t been such a bad idea, really. We did hear John’s voice over the radios in the storeroom …
I sat up straighter. Could it really be that simple?
I glanced around the office and spotted a 1940s Bakelite radio on one of the shelves. It was one of Dad’s favorite finds. But did it still work?
I took it down and plugged it in. I held my breath and switched it on.
Nothing … wait. The dials were lit up. Maybe it just wasn’t tuned to any station. I turned up the volume and heard the hiss of static. I twisted the dial slowly, slowly, pausing each time I heard a voice, until—
“Josie.”
My head jerked up. John stood on the other side of the desk. I realized I was still wearing my sweatshirt from the night before, the pin jabbed through the sleeve.
“John?”
“Save them.” The voice was faint, wrapped in static, and layered as if several people were speaking together but couldn’t quite get the timing right.
I stood slowly. “John, I can hear you! The radio!”
He looked as surprised as I felt. “Save them,” he said.
“Yes! Yes, save them! I hear you. Wait, I have to get Fox. Don’t go anywhere!”
I found the boys in Fox’s room and dragged them downstairs to the study. Once behind closed doors again, I declared, “John, say it again. Go ahead.”
“Save them.”
“You heard that, right?” I said.
“Yeah,” Fox said.
“Wow,” Mason said.
They both stared at the radio, spellbound. “You had the right idea, Mason,” Fox said.
Mason grinned.
“Save them.”
I huffed a frustrated breath. “Can’t you say anything else? I just found out that the curse comes with a death sentence. I need answers, John. You killed yourself hoping your ghost could help us, right? Then help us.”
“Wait, really?” Fox said.
“Father. Your father,” John said. “Chose him to end it. There was a letter. In the safe. There was a letter.”
“We didn’t find any letter, John,” Fox said. “Just a little scrap of paper with your favorite phrase on it.”
“Save them.”
“Yep. That’s what it said.”
“It’s like he’s stuck,” I said. “Like his thoughts are getting scrambled between here and … wherever he is.”
“Save them. Save you. I died,” John said. “Died early. Early … to save them. Save you.”
“I thought you did it because you were too sick to stop the disaster,” I said.
“More. There’s more,” John said. “I already died. Now save them.”
I closed my eyes, trying to fill in the missing pieces. “What if his death has already satisfied the curse?” I said. “So if we manage to stop the disaster, then I won’t die and it all ends. That makes sense, right?”
I looked over at the boys for their reaction. Mason shrugged, but Fox looked thoughtful.
“Please tell us, John,” Fox said. “If we save them, does it mean Josie won’t die after all?”
John looked at each of us in turn, eyes pleading. “Save them. Save you.”
“He doesn’t know,” I said, disappointment turning my words brittle.
“But it makes sense. That’s good enough for me,” Fox said, his jaw set. He turned to leave.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Out.”
He swung the door wide and headed for the front entryway. Mason looked at me in alarm. “Josie?”
“Go and stall him,” I said. “I’ll be right there.”
“Edgar is angry,” John said.
That made me pause. “You and Mothman are on a first-name basis? That’s new.”
John bared his teeth; his eyes narrowed in sudden fury. Cold air crept along the floor from every corner and circled my feet. “Hate him. I hate him.”
I took a step back, unnerved by his change of mood. “I don’t blame you, John. But I need to know. Do you know for sure that I won’t die if we save those people?” He blinked at me, his anger fading, and shook his head.
“That’s just great.”
His image began to flicker.
“No, don’t go. Please, John, I need you, because I think Fox is about to do something really stupid!”
“Save them,” John whispered, and disappeared.
“Arrrrrggghhh!” I kicked the desk before hurrying out of the study with a brisk limp. “Fox, where do you think you’re going?”
“No more screwing around. We stop the disaster, you live. And I know a foolproof way, right now, to make sure there are no people in that building tomorrow.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“Nothing.” He wouldn’t meet my eye. “I’ll see you later.”
Mason clung to Fox’s arm. He looked fearfully from me to Fox and back again.
“Fox.”
“The less you know, the better, Josie.”
“It doesn’t work that way! We’re in this together.”
“Not this time. I know you hate breaking the rules, but one of us has to, so better if it’s me.”
“You really think you’re gonna burn the Field House to the ground?” I snapped.
Mason’s eyes got round and huge.
I herded them both into the kitchen. “The building is practic
ally new. It’s probably got all kinds of fancy systems to protect it.”
“All I have to do is damage it enough to cancel Monday’s events. It’s the only way to know for sure that we’ve stopped it.”
“No, it isn’t. Say you manage to burn up some crucial support structure. What if people are in there tomorrow, looking for the cause of the fire, and the roof collapses?”
He huffed. “I’ll figure something out. I’m not gonna let my sister die because of some stupid curse. Just let me end it!”
“No. I can’t let you do this. John killed himself on a hunch—do you get that? He did something stupid out of desperation. Just like you’re about to do. What if I drop dead the minute you set fire to the building?”
His forehead scrunched in confusion. “But … Goodrich said…”
“The truth is, we don’t know what will happen.”
He shook his head. “And you think that’s going to change before tomorrow?”
“I’m saying we still have time to figure this out.”
“And if I disagree, then you’re gonna stop me? What are you gonna do, tell on me?”
“Oh, I’ll stop you,” I said, balling up my fists “Mason, you’d better move, honey.”
Mason backed away.
“This ought to be good,” Fox said. “She’ll stop me, she says. Like she has any chance of—ack!”
I ducked my head, led with one shoulder, and charged. My tackle hit him center mass, right in the chest. He took me down with him, along with a couple of kitchen chairs, as he was knocked off his feet. He landed on his butt with a satisfying “Oof!”
I pinned him in a wrestling hold I’d seen him use on Mason multiple times. “Give up?”
He bucked, quicker than I’d thought possible, tossing me to the side and rolling to his feet in one skillful move.
I grabbed the closest thing at hand—the broom—and leveled it at him. “You’re not going anywhere, Fox.”
He backed up toward the sink, grabbed the spray nozzle, and yanked the hose out as far as it would go.
“Don’t you dare!” I shouted.
“Drop the broom,” he said.
“No.”
“What are you gonna do with a broom, anyway? Sweep me to death?” He squeezed the trigger, just for a second, but it was enough to drench me in cold water.
I shrieked and dropped the broom.
“Had enough?”
Hardly. I spotted a black Sharpie on the counter and went for that instead. I ripped the cap off and held the pen like a dagger, jabbing it in Fox’s direction.
He flinched, just long enough for me to move in for a second strike and draw a long swipe of black across his forearm and onto his favorite shirt. He stared at the mark in horror, then lifted his eyes to mine, expression flashing from offended disbelief to steely anger. “Oh, it is on.”
He squeezed the nozzle trigger and held it down. I shrieked again and tried to dance out of the stream of water, managing to put two black lines across the back of his hand. “You’re not the only one who can fix this!” I shouted. “Good old Fox. He’ll make it right, because he’s so perfect!”
Fox reached out and slapped the pen from my grip. I seized the hose snaking out from the sink and bent it in half, cutting off his precious water supply.
“What is going on here?”
Aunt Barb stood in the doorway, hands on hips.
I let go of the hose, realizing too late Fox was pointing it right at Barb. She shouted as water drenched her. I reached over and turned off the faucet, but the damage was done.
Then Fox did something that I never thought I’d see: he ran. Didn’t make up some outrageous story on the spot, didn’t try to charm his way out of trouble. He just dropped the sprayer, ran upstairs to his room, and slammed the door.
The house felt like a kettle about to wail.
Mason huddled in the corner, crying.
Aunt Barb stood, sopping wet, breathing heavily, staring around the kitchen at the mess we’d made—chairs knocked over, boxes of cereal spilled across the floor in colorful constellations.
Someone pounded on the front door.
Aunt Barb leaned against a chair and heaved a mighty sigh. “What now?”
I grabbed a towel and handed it to her, then grabbed another for myself. “I’ll get it. Mason?” I said on my way out of the kitchen. “I’m sorry we were fighting. Give me just a minute, okay?” I swung the door open to find two police officers on the porch. And Mitch, of all people, stood behind them, fidgeting.
“Um, Aunt Barb? The police are here.”
She bustled into the living room, fussing with her wet hair. “Why, hello, officers,” she said, voice dripping with honey. “How are you on this fine day? Would you care for some blueberry muffins?”
“We need to speak with your husband, Mrs. Reevey.”
“Why, is that you, Jake? I haven’t seen you since that summer you were mowing lawns to save for college.”
Jake, the younger of the two cops, cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am. Is Bill here?”
“He’s out in the auction house, I’m sure. Mason, honey, run and fetch him, would you?”
Mason stared at the group on the porch for a good minute before edging past them and running across the yard.
“Well, come in, come in, have a seat.” Aunt Barb bustled about in her housedress, looking like a big, wet poodle, still trying to make everyone feel at home. “Can I get you some coffee?”
Mitch and the policemen stepped inside but did not sit. “No, thank you, ma’am.”
“Mitch,” she said, “are you still enjoying your work here at Fletcher Auctions?”
He shuffled his feet, cleared his throat. “Uh, yes, ma’am.”
“Is that so? Would you like to continue making chitchat, then, or would you like to tell me the real reason you all are here?”
I heard Fox’s bedroom door open upstairs, followed by careful footsteps in the hall.
Mitch kept his gaze on the ground. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Reevey. You’ve all been so good to me. But what your husband is doing is wrong. Making your niece and nephew play along is even worse. Trying to fool people like that…”
“Fool people—officers, what is this all about?”
Uncle Bill and Mason walked in.
Officer Jake stepped forward, one of our auction flyers clutched in his hand. “Bill Reevey, I’m afraid you’re under arrest for destruction of public property, fraud, and child endangerment.”
I sucked in a startled breath.
“No!” Fox shouted, pounding down the stairs. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Hush up now,” Uncle Bill said. “Can you at least tell me when and where I did all these things?”
“Sir, it would be better if we take you to the station to discuss things there. You have the right to remain silent…”
“No, you can’t take him. It was me, all right?” Fox shouted. “Whatever you’re accusing him of, it was all me, my idea, trying to drum up some business around here.”
“And me,” I jumped in. “Mitch will tell you. He drove us to the campus the other night. Please.”
“These kids did nothing wrong, officers,” Uncle Bill said. “I’m happy to go down to the station to straighten all this out.”
Aunt Barb fanned her face with one hand. “I sincerely hope you are not accusing us of dreaming up this Mothman spectacle. Anyone with two eyes could see that creature was real.”
Everyone started talking and shouting at once. Uncle Bill gave a piercing whistle that shut us all up quick. He motioned for Jake to join him on the porch. “May I speak to you outside, please?” he asked with his typical calm.
Fox turned to Mitch. “Mothman is real,” he said. “And everyone who was at the auction knows it. Hundreds of people saw him!”
Mitch paled but shook his head in denial. “It was a trick, simple as that.”
Mason hurried over to tug on my sleeve. “Josie, are they taking Uncle Bill to jail?”
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I slipped an arm around him. “Yes.” I didn’t have the energy to dance around the truth anymore.
“I need to change into some dry clothes. Don’t let them leave without me,” Aunt Barb said, hurrying upstairs.
After a few minutes, Uncle Bill and Jake came back into the house. The older cop pulled out his handcuffs, but Uncle Bill said, “You don’t need those.” Jake shook his head and his partner put the cuffs away. Together they ushered Uncle Bill outside to the police cruiser.
Mitch followed them out and stood awkwardly on the porch, like he wanted to say something to us. I glared at him. “You don’t know what you’ve done,” I told him. “I don’t care if you meant well or not. You may have just doomed hundreds of people to die.”
“I just hope you and your family get the help you need, Josie,” Mitch said, not meeting my gaze.
Fox stormed toward us, no doubt some silver-tongued insult on his lips, but I stepped in front of him just in time. “Goodbye, Mitch,” I said, and softly closed the door.
“Why’d you do that? I still had plenty to say to him.”
“He thinks he’s helping,” I said with a sigh.
Aunt Barb returned, dressed and mostly dry, her wild hair tamed into submission and pinned on top of her head. “What a mess,” she said, shaking her head. “I have to go with them to straighten all this out. You three will be okay on your own, won’t you? I could call someone…”
“We’ll be fine,” I said quickly. “You just have to convince them that Uncle Bill didn’t do anything wrong. Please.”
“I’ve already called our lawyer. Don’t worry.” She folded each of us into a hug before lining us up shoulder-to-shoulder across the living room, her face stern. “You will mop up all this water while I’m gone, and clean up this mess.” We nodded. “Whatever all this fighting is about, it stops now, understood?” We nodded again. “Warm up some leftovers for lunch. Keep the doors locked. Keep your cell phones charged. And try not to worry. In a few days, this will all seem like a bad dream.”
We watched her go in silence. None of us could think of anything to say.
Mason switched on the TV and curled up on the couch with a blanket while Fox and I cleaned up the kitchen. I could hear a reporter talking about the annual Mothman Festival, a two-day party in Point Pleasant with vendors, music, and guest speakers.
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