“Nice to see you, Gillie,” I said, letting go, my cheek feeling sort of greasy from where it’d touched her face, like a whole bottle of lotion had exploded on her skin. “Ready for our slumber party?”
Uncle Glenn reappeared at the moment, free of dishes and bags, and Gillie looked at her dad, a flash of anger crossing her face.
“I thought you were joking about the sleeping bags,” she said, annoyed.
“Why would I kid about the sleeping bags?” he asked.
“Are you kidding me?” Gillie asked, her voice rising. “A sleeping bag on Baylor’s floor? That type of accommodation is not acceptable.”
Uncle Glenn turned his head a bit and stared at her, his expression eerily similar to mom’s from just moments ago. “You know what’s not acceptable, Gillie?” he said. “That snotty tone of yours. Say one more word about it and I’ll make sure you sleep on the kitchen floor with a dish towel for a pillow.”
She glared at him. “That’s child abuse.”
He smiled. “That’s parenting. Take your stuff up to Baylor’s room. Now.”
She stomped upstairs and he turned back to my mom, who looked at him with a face of admiration. “Happy Thanksgiving,” he said sarcastically, imitating Gillie’s voice. “I’m sooo thankful for high school. It’s, like, the best.”
Mom laughed and finally gave him a proper hug. “Everyone goes through it,” she said, her head on his shoulder. “I remember being a fourteen-year-old and feeling so insecure and trying to fit in. Girls are so mean, too.” She let go of him, frowned, and shook her head. “Much meaner than boys. It’s tough.”
I got a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. I started high school next year, and seeing Gillie act like that and hearing Mom talk about it made me nervous.
“Yeah, well, things are different these days,” he said. “You didn’t have cell phones or computers or social media.” He made a face like he’d taken cough syrup. “She’s been in high school for less than three months and it’s like an alien spaceship sucked her up, messed with her brain, and spit down this creature I don’t recognize.” Mom looked at me quickly, a note of panic crossing her face, before turning back to her brother. He didn’t notice, though, because he’d turned to me. “Or, hey, maybe a demon’s haunting her, Baylor. Any chance you can perform an exorcism this weekend?”
I attempted a meek laugh. “Probably not,” I said. “I’ll go help Gillie with her bag.”
“Well, before you do that, would you mind helping your aunt with her stuff? Her father’s a bit of, uh, a handful,” he stammered, looking at my mom. “Sorry again about all that.”
“It’s fine,” she said, her tone breezy. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Yeah, but I know Doug—”
“It’s fine,” she said sharply, and it was clear they wouldn’t be discussing it again.
It took all the strength I had to shove the bubbling questions back down my throat. I looked at Kristina, who shrugged, just as stumped. Annoyed, I grabbed my jacket and headed out to the car.
Oli, a few years younger than me, was balancing a perilous stack of bags in his arms. “Hi, Baylor,” he said, enthusiasm bursting out of his pores.
“The boy’s aura is golden,” the colonel exclaimed. “Wow!”
“He’s obsessed with Baylor,” Kristina said, “and he fights with Jack because he’s so jealous Jack has an older brother.” She looked at me sadly. “Though it seems like Jack would be perfectly willing to trade places with Oli.”
“We’re going to fix that,” I whispered from the corner of my mouth before turning back to Oli. “Hey, Oli. Hey, Aunt Cathy,” I said.
Aunt Cathy didn’t respond because she was half inside the backseat of the car, fumbling around with something.
“What’s she doing?” I asked Oli.
“Grandpa’s fussing over his seat belt. Keeps saying it’s stuck.”
“Do they need help?”
“No,” he said, rolling his eyes. “He’s just sitting on it and won’t move over to unbuckle it.”
“What’s his name again? Horty?”
“Yeah, lots of people call him Uncle Horty,” he said.
“Got it,” I said, eyeing his bags, which seemed to teeter left and right more and more with each passing second. “Those look heavy. Go inside; I’ll help your mom.”
Oli walked toward the house, and I went to the other side of the car, opened the door, and stuck my head in. Immediately an unwelcome cloud of pungent, spicy cologne invaded my nose. I covered my nose and mouth, hoping to filter the foul scent. Uncle Horty sat in the middle seat, his arms dangling helplessly as his daughter had her hands buried beneath his body.
“Aunt Cathy?” I said.
“Oh, hi, Baylor,” she said, looking up. “Sorry, just trying to help my dad with his seat belt. Dad, you remember Baylor, of course.” She forced an odd laugh. “And Baylor, feel free to call him Uncle Horty.”
Uncle Horty’s body looked like a collection of rectangles and squares. He had broad, sharp shoulders that blended seamlessly with his wide torso, and his legs stuck out on both sides of the middle console at a perfect perpendicular angle. His head was oddly small compared to the rest of his body, but it was just as sharp and angular, like it had been sculpted using a shoe box as a guide.
“Hello, Baylor,” he said, his voice higher than I thought it was going to be. “I’d shake your hand, but we’re a little preoccupied at the moment.”
“Dad, all you have to do is scoot forward a little and I can unbuckle it,” Aunt Cathy said, her exasperation more than evident. It sounded like that was the twentieth time she’d repeated the same sentence.
“Cathy, dear, it’s stuck,” he said, enunciating the last word slowly and condescendingly.
“Oh, this is just pathetic,” Kristina said, watching from the passenger seat as Charlie and the colonel stood nearby.
“It’s not stuck,” Aunt Cathy said. “You’re just not used to these new cars with small middle seats. If you’d just sat in the front like I’d asked you to, this wouldn’t have been a problem.”
“I like the backseat,” he said simply. “I get a good view of the road and can help the driver out.”
“Yes, and while Glenn thoroughly appreciated your desire to help, it’s probably best to just let the driver drive next time.”
“Oh no, you can never be too careful, Cathy, not these days,” he said with all the concern of a doctor explaining that the bubonic plague had returned and we were all doomed. “You never know what pyschos are out on the roads anymore, swerving left and right, drunk at ten in the morning, wreaking havoc on the innocents of the world.”
Cathy sighed. “You’re going to be stuck here all day if you don’t sit up,” she said. “We’re not going to cut this seat belt just because you don’t understand how it works.”
“Maybe we should call a mechanic,” he suggested.
“Baylor,” she said suddenly, jerking her head in my direction, her short hair flying waywardly around her head, “give me your belt.”
“What?”
“Your belt,” she said. “Take it off and give it to me.”
Uncle Horty and I looked at each other in confusion as I took off the belt. Was she about to choke him to death? If that were the case, I wouldn’t let her go through with it, of course, but I was semicurious to see her make the attempt.
“Bet she chokes him,” Charlie said with delight. “Any takers?”
She grabbed my belt, fastened it around her dad’s legs, and told me to come to her side. She grabbed my shoulders and leaned forward as her dad hummed helplessly from the inside the car.
“I’m going to hoist him up in a second, and you’re going to dig in there, find the buckle, and click it,” she said in a way that suggested she might morph into a snake and swallow me whole if I didn’t succeed the first time.
“Got it,” I said. We turned to the car, squeezed in, and got into position, my body angled awkwardly under hers. She pu
lled up on the belt, shifting her father up and away from the seat. I shoved my hands under his legs, searching for the buckle, hoping beyond hope he hadn’t had an accident or something during the car ride. My right hand found the end of the belt, and I yelped with excitement as I plunged my finger into the red button and the belt suddenly loosened and zoomed against the seat.
Aunt Cathy let go of the belt and Uncle Horty landed hard on the seat, as did my hands, which were unfortunately still on the buckle. We both screamed at the same time—he in pain, and me because my hands were touching an old man’s butt. I yanked my hands away, forgetting Aunt Cathy was positioned awkwardly over me, and I accidentally elbowed her in the face.
She screamed as well, and we both fell backward out of the car and onto the pavement in a heap.
“Are you okay?” I asked, lifting myself off her.
“I think so,” she said, clutching her eyebrow as my mom, dad, and uncle ran out of the house to see what was going on after hearing three separate screams. “Just missed my eye, thankfully.”
“What happened?” my dad asked, the first to arrive, surveying the scene.
“These modern cars,” Uncle Horty said, sliding gracefully out of the car and stepping over Aunt Cathy and me. “Only a fool would believe they’re safer than ever. Clearly not.” He pointed to us on the ground as if to prove his point.
My dad bent down to help us get on our feet.
“Oh, Cathy, you’re bleeding,” he groaned. His hands awkwardly hovered over a cut just above her eyebrow, unsure of what to do.
“See?” Uncle Horty said. “This never would have happened in the seventies.”
“Oh, really, Horty?” Dad spit, glowering at the old man. “Yeah, those cars were so much safer, you know, without all the air bags and seat belts and pumping breaks and alarm systems.”
As my dad finished his little speech, Uncle Horty smirked. “Happy Thanksgiving, Douglas. It’s good to see you again.”
My dad opened his mouth to say something, but my mom touched his shoulder and walked forward to embrace the old man in a hug.
“Great to see you, Horty. Now let’s get your daughter inside before that cut gets infected.”
She grabbed Aunt Cathy around the shoulder and led her inside the house, leaving me, my dad, Uncle Glenn, Uncle Horty, and a trio of ghosts to awkwardly stare at one another in the driveway.
“Well,” Charlie piped up, his voice eager and excited, “looks like we’re goin’ to be in for a very interesting evening!”
TIP
13
Spelling matters.
BACK INSIDE THE HOUSE, THE kids were all settled in the family room as the adults putzed around in the kitchen.
“Mom and Dad will be here closer to dinner,” Mom said to Uncle Glenn. “Aunt Hilda’s taking her sweet time getting ready.”
“Of course she is,” chirped Uncle Horty from the table. I wondered if Aunt Hilda and Uncle Horty had ever spent a long time with each other. Surely their paths had crossed here and there at various family events, but it seemed like a disaster waiting to happen, like two storms set to converge into a hurricane of unpleasantness.
“Ella, Elllllla, Elllllllaaaa,” sang Oli, who was playing with Ella in front of the TV. She was chucking blocks at his head, and he was swatting them away.
“Oli, seriously?” Gillie said from the couch. “Could you be more annoying?”
“Oh, sorry I’m playing with our baby cousin, Gillie!” he said back. “Sorry I actually want to spend time with my family.”
She rolled her eyes. “You can spend time with the family and not be such an annoying freak at the same time,” she said.
“Do you think I’m an annoying freak, Ella? Do youuu, Ellaaaa?” he said.
“Oli!” Aunt Cathy snapped from the kitchen, a bright pink Band-Aid over her eyebrow. “Don’t say that word in front of Ella!”
“What word?”
“ ‘Freak!’ We don’t want her learning words like that.”
“She’s never going to remember that word,” he said. “It’s not even that bad of a word.”
“Did I ask you for your parenting advice, Oli? No. I didn’t. Have you raised two children and know what’s best for them? No. You haven’t. Don’t say that word again.”
I looked at Kristina and snickered. She and the colonel were leaning against the wall near the kitchen, so they could hear each conversation perfectly. Charlie was sitting at the kitchen table next to Uncle Horty, inches away from his face, studying his every wrinkle.
I motioned in their direction to Kristina. She glanced at them and grimaced.
“Charlie, what are you doing?” she asked.
“How is his skin so tight for such an old man?”
Kristina and I heard a commotion from the other side, and I made a face at her. I hadn’t even realized I was tuned out. I didn’t think much about it at home thanks to the various protections in place. I squeezed the amulet under my shirt, amazed at how quickly it had helped me.
“I think . . . I think that’s Horty’s sister,” she said.
“It’s his wife,” the colonel corrected her.
“She’s complaining at the moment. Delivering a message, ironically, from the other ghosts wanting to deliver a message. Saying you’ve been tuning them out too much recently. They haven’t had a chance of getting through.” Kristina smiled. “I think that means the amulet has really been helping you, though. But, oh wow, she’s a talker. Going on about how it’s your life’s purpose to deliver healing messages to help people, not to spend all your time traipsing around other people’s dreams like some kind of Peeping Tom.” She rolled her eyes. “Listen, lady, Baylor can deliver any and all messages at his discretion.”
I could hear the woman talking back in the same way you might hear a muffled conversation through the thin walls of a cheap hotel.
“Well, if you don’t like it, you can take that up with the Higher Powers,” Kristina growled back, her body highlighted in a faint blue glow, growing more intense as she said every furious word. “Quite frankly, your opinion has as much value as a pile of demon dung, and if you want to have even a glimmer of a chance of Baylor delivering your message to Horty, I suggest you silence yourself now.”
By the time she finished, she was hovering several inches off the ground, illuminated in a swirling blue energy that eagerly lapped off her in flares and bursts, like she was commanding a small but vigorous ocean. The light slowly faded away, and she sank back to the earth, looking a bit embarrassed as she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.
“Now that’s an O’Brien woman!” Charlie hollered, standing up from the table and pointing at Kristina. “That’s it, girl. You tell ’em!”
Kristina couldn’t blush, but had she been alive, she would have been burning red from Charlie’s compliments and the colonel’s proud smile.
“Baylor, what are you doing?” Gillie said from behind her phone.
“Huh?”
“You’re totally spazzing!” she said, sounding interested for the first time all day. She put down her phone and looked at me in amazement. “Was that . . . were you just . . . ?”
Now it was my turn to blush. “Oh, sorry,” I said. “I’m so used to talking to ghosts at home. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
“Are you kidding?” she said. “Was . . . was that”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“was that Kristina?”
I looked at her overly made-up face, her cheeks shiny and pink, her eyes dark with ashy blue shadow, and I nodded. “Yeah.”
She squealed. “Oh wow,” she said. “That was so cool. My friends are going to freak!”
“Gillie!” Aunt Cathy barked. “What did I just say to your brother about that word?”
“Sorry,” she said, looking at her mom and sounding zero percent sorry. “But Baylor was just channeling Kristina, and it was awesome.” She turned back to me. “You have no idea, Baylor, but my friends think you’re, like, the coolest person ever. When they fou
nd out I was your cousin, they nearly died.” She covered her mouth and giggled. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. But you know what I mean. My friend Erin is, like, the biggest Bayliever around.” My cheeks burned. “She checks this crazy website all the time, BaylieversUnited.com, have you heard of it?”
Somehow, my cheeks burned more, hot enough to make a pan sizzle.
“Um, yeah, I have,” I said.
“Apparently some lady has been posting articles about you. Did you know that?” she said, her eyes wide and hopeful. “Have you read them?”
“Yeah,” I said. “She’s not a very good reporter, though.”
“Oh, totally not,” Gillie said. “But still, it’s pretty cool having people write about you.”
My mom must have noticed me nearly drowning in my own saliva because she chimed in to pivot the conversation in another direction.
“Have you guys seen Baylor’s gifts for us?” she said happily, though I could tell from the shape of her eyes that she was slightly concerned for me. “I’ll show you the one outside first! Follow me.”
She led the way to the backyard through the door by the kitchen table. Uncle Horty stayed put, saying he was still feeling a bit too fragile to move, but everyone else went out to see the stone I had made to mark Kristina’s presence in the world. It’d bothered me that she was such a big part of our lives but there was nothing to indicate as much. With the help of Madame Nadirah, I’d commissioned a memorial stone that read: For Kristina, our beloved daughter and sister, whose love lives on in our hearts.
“I hate to ask,” Aunt Cathy said, “but how did . . . how did she get named?”
“I don’t know, actually,” I said. “It just kind of happened.” I turned to Kristina. “I think you said Mom was going to name me Kristina if I’d been a girl, so the glove just sort of fit, I guess.”
“That’s true,” Mom said, her voice high. “Yes. Of course, I wouldn’t have spelled it that way, though. I would have spelled it Christina, with a C.”
Baylor's Guide to Dreadful Dreams Page 9