Help for the Haunted: A Novel

by John Searles

  “Hello,” I called out again. And again, it sounded like a question: Hello?

  And then there was the tumble of heavy footsteps moving out of the darkness in my direction, the sound of something exploding by my ear, then nothing until I woke in the hospital. How many times had I been over those details and so many others with Rummel and Louise? At some point during every meeting, Louise impressed upon me how crucial it was that my account never waver, saying, “We have Lynch’s footprints and fingerprints inside that church. We have the details of his threats toward your parents. But what the jury needs to hear, Sylvie, is that you saw him with your own eyes when you stepped inside. That’s what’s going to seal the deal and put him away. That’s what’s going to make it so your mother and father rest in peace. And isn’t that what you want?”

  “Yes,” I told her whenever she asked that question.

  Yes, I thought as my eyes fell shut on the sofa.

  When I opened them, the sunlight through the front window was gone. The TV had moved on to the evening news. As Peter Jennings droned on, I looked at the ticking clock: almost seven. What had caused me to wake, I realized, was the sound of someone at the door. Those boys again, I worried. But before I could get up and twist the locks, it swung open and Rose stepped inside. She wore a top I’d never seen before, nicer than her usual, with a little bow at the collar as though she was making a gift of herself. In the flickering blue light, I saw that she held something in her hands. Mail, I guessed, since she set it on the stairs to carry up later. After that, she turned to the cross on the wall and brought her hands together in a gesture that looked like she might be about to pray.

  “Whooaa!” She noticed me at the last second and spun around. “What the hell are you doing just sitting here in the dark?”

  “I fell asleep in front of the TV. I was tired after school.”

  “Well, you scared the crap out of me. And try working a job when you’re tired. It’s not easy.”

  I let the mention of a job go for the moment. Her praying, too. “Dereck says hello.”

  “Dereck who?”

  “I don’t know his last name. He works at Watt’s Farm and at a garage in town.” I held up my thumb and index finger, twiddling the way he did. “Missing digits. Werewolf teeth.”

  “The one with brown hair?”

  “Do you know a blond Dereck with missing fingers and werewolf teeth?”

  “You know what, Sylvie? Every once in a while you’re actually funny. But not this time. No one calls that doofus by his real name, so that’s why I wondered.”

  “What do they call him?”

  “Seven.”

  “Seven?”

  “That’s how many fingers he has left.” Rose hunted down the remote and collapsed into a wingback chair. As she flipped channels, I watched her kick off her shoes and rub her feet. It took a while for me to work up the courage, but I managed to ask, “Have you been down in the basement?”

  “Nope. Why?”

  “The light’s been on. Ever since last night.”

  “Probably something screwy with the wiring. Don’t start thinking your weird thoughts. By the way, that detective called. So did Louise. There’s been a development. They want us at the station in the morning. So you’ll have to miss a few classes.”

  I waited to see if Rose would say anything more about the development, but she did not. Rather than tell her what I’d read in the paper and seen on the local news, I just took to watching bits and pieces of TV before asking: “What state has license plates with a blue background and gold letters and numbers?”

  “You don’t know, Sylvie? We see them all the time. They’re from one state over. Delaware. Why?”

  “No reason. Did you mention something before about a job?”

  From the way she rubbed her feet, I thought she’d tell me she found one waitressing. Instead, she said, “Try not to be too impressed. But you’re looking at a bona fide tele-researcher for Dial U.S.A. in Baltimore. Today was my first day. I completed three phone surveys.”

  “Surveys? About what?”

  “Fast food. Deodorant. Cigarettes. They say opinions are like assholes and everyone’s got one. But I say opinions are like teeth—everyone’s got hundreds, and they love nothing more than to use them to chatter away.”

  “Thirty-two,” I told her.

  “Thirty-two what?”

  “Humans have thirty-two teeth. Not counting the deciduous ones we lose and put under our pillow for the Tooth Fairy when we’re kids. So according to your theory, every adult has thirty-two opinions. Not hundreds.”

  My sister stared at me, massaging her foot still. “How the hell do you know that kind of crap anyway?”

  “Our father was once a dentist. Didn’t you ever talk to him about it?”

  She let go of her foot, slouched in her chair, not answering.

  “So do you like your job?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “It’s work, Sylvie. Nobody likes work. But I’ve already sucked up to my supervisor real good. Fran even forked over a Dial U.S.A. calling card, so I can take surveys home and do them from here. A privilege only people with seniority usually get. Anyway, I was thinking, if you help me, I’ll give you a cut. Fifty cents for every completed survey. What do you say?”

  It used to be I had money hidden in my room from that first essay contest and the others I’d gone on to win. But that changed the summer Abigail came to live with us. As much as I liked the idea of replenishing my supply, I knew better than to accept Rose’s initial offer. We haggled, stopping whenever she found something good on TV. As I waited for a commercial, I found myself thinking of what Boshoff told me about his sick wife and the way he liked to read cookbooks when he couldn’t sleep. Maybe, I thought, if I made enough cash, I’d pick him up a new one.

  “A dollar a survey,” I told Rose when a commercial appeared at last. “Final offer.”

  “Deal.”

  I had plenty of questions: How would Fran know we weren’t making up answers? What was the latest we could call people? But Rose told me she would explain everything in the morning. She didn’t want to talk about Dial U.S.A. anymore. I knew better than to bother her, so I stretched out on the sofa again, figuring I’d stay up a while. My sister flipped channels until settling on a PBS documentary that I knew didn’t interest her. But leaving that channel on was what we did when we wanted our house to feel the way it used to when our parents were alive, since that was all they watched.

  This particular show was about famous speeches. As Winston Churchill addressed a crowd, I started thinking that I might do better than Rose when it came to making those survey calls. My voice was less pushy, like our mother’s, which might put those people at ease. When I looked over, Rose had nodded off. Her eyes had a way of staying open the smallest bit when she slept. I kept staring at the milky slits until something caused her to stir.

  “Why are you gawking at me?”

  “I wasn’t gawking.”

  “You were so. Just like when I came in before. Now cut it out.”

  I should have planned the next part, but the question came out almost of its own accord. “What do you think I should love about you?”

  Rose opened her eyes more fully and sat up. I may as well have snapped on the lights, clapped my hands next to her ears. “What?”

  “What do you think I should love about you?” I repeated, feeling more nervous the second time.

  “What the hell kind of thing is that to ask, Sylvie?”

  The Churchill speech should have inspired me to offer some eloquent response, but I felt stumped. Rose pressed the remote and the room went dark. Silent too, except for the ticking clock. I figured she’d given up waiting for an answer, because she told me she was too tired to go up to bed and that she’d just rest on the couch for a while. I picked up my things and walked to the stairs, glancing down at the mail and wondering if a letter from Howie might be in the stack. The moment I put my foot on the bottom step, I heard Rose�
�s voice behind me. She sounded softer, a little like our mother for a change, when she said, “I’m your sister. Isn’t that reason enough for you to love me?”

  I wasn’t sure what to say, so I told her she was right. Then I kept going up to my room, where I took out that small violet book and sat on my bed. Inside, I made a new list of “Little Things,” a list that looked like this:

  #1. My sister knows Dereck, and Dereck seems nice.

  #2. My sister is giving me the chance to make money so I can buy Boshoff a present.

  #3. My sister is my sister. She thinks that’s reason enough for me to love her. And I guess I do too.

  Chapter 10

  The Light

  When we left the Lynches in the parking lot of the convention center, I figured it was the last we would see of them. Or, more likely, I didn’t think about it at all. I was too busy following my mother back to the greenroom and replaying the things I’d witnessed over and over in my mind: the way she knelt before those bushes, the way she hummed that pattering song, the way she grew silent before reaching her hand into the shadows.

  Inside the building once more, my mother asked me to sit quietly with Jane Eyre while she returned to the auditorium to finish the last of the evening’s talk with my father. There must not have been much left of their presentation, or perhaps my uncle’s disruption and my mother’s disappearance from the stage had caused people to lose interest. Whatever the reason, a short while later I looked up to see them standing in the doorway. The same security guard who chased Howie out escorted us through a maze of hallways and through the rear exit to where our Datsun was parked. As we climbed inside, he stood watch, making sure none of my parents’ detractors appeared unexpectedly to confront us.

  After my father started the engine, I apologized for failing to keep my promise. His dark eyes glanced at me in the rearview mirror. He told me that he was sure I’d done my best, so I should not feel bad. But he wanted to know how Rose went from sitting in the greenroom to joyriding around town with his brother. As we rolled along the Ocala roads, strewn with palm leaves and debris from the storm, I filled them in on everything that happened. Since I’d already disappointed them once that evening, I left out the detail about sneaking into the auditorium with my sister and instead said we’d wandered outside to check on the storm when we saw him there in his truck.

  “Uncle Howie looks different,” I finished.

  We were passing a commercial strip, and I watched my parents turn their heads in search of that old pickup with the squashed side.

  “Don’t you think he looked different?” I asked, not letting it go.

  “That’s Howie,” my father said. “A human slot machine. You never know what you’re going to get when you pull the lever.”

  “Why do—” I started in on another question then thought better of it.

  “Why do what?”

  “I was going to ask why do you and Uncle Howie hate each other?”

  My mother kept quiet, staring out the window still, though we were passing nothing but woods by then.

  “Hate is a strong word, Sylvie. He’s my brother and my blood. I suppose some part of me loves the man, despite our differences. I let him know we were coming to Florida, because I thought we could have a nice visit for a change. But clearly, we’re better off keeping a distance between us. The stunt he pulled tonight proves once again how little respect he has for me and my work and my wife and my chil—”

  “Sylvester,” my mother said. “You don’t need to go into all that with Sylvie.”

  So rarely did she challenge him that my father fell quiet. Never once had I heard them argue, but things were tense enough inside our car that it made me wonder if it might happen. After a pause, though, he told her she was right, that there was little point in rehashing it all. “The last thing I’ll say on the topic, Sylvie, is that someday, when Rose gets her head straight, I hope the two of you can be close. Even though it’s not the case with your uncle and me, it can be a very special thing to have someone who’s a part of you in this world. Someone who knows how you think and feel.”

  “There,” my mother said, tapping the glass. “Look there.”

  My father slowed the Datsun and we stared out the passenger side at a sign that announced simply: ARCADE. Our flash of hope faded the moment we pulled into the lot and spotted another sign on the door: CLOSED. Through the windows, it was possible to make out dozens of hulking video games, though none gave off any light. Teenagers hung out on the sidewalk anyway. A lanky boy on a skateboard, hair so long he might have been mistaken for a girl, tried jumping the curb only to wipe out. A group of girls sat close by, smoking as they watched him dust off and attempt the stunt again.

  “Good evening,” my father greeted them, rolling down the window.

  The boy kicked the back of his skateboard and it leaped into his hands. He eyed our car as though ready to make a run for it. A girl with ropy bracelets around her thin wrists looked less skittish. My father’s “good evening” had sent her into a fit of giggles. “Why, good evening to you, sir,” she said, imitating the deep formality of his voice. “And how do you do this fine evening?”

  If my father noticed that she was mocking him, he never let on. “I’m wondering if you’ve seen a truck.”

  “Well, I’ve seen plenty of trucks this evening, sir. Eighteen-wheelers. Dump trucks. Pickup trucks . . .”

  “Tell her that this one is two-tone. Brown and cream,” my mother said from the passenger seat as the girl rambled in that put-on voice. “It has a big dent on one side.”

  My father repeated the information, offering a description of Howie and Rose too.

  “You a cop or something?” she asked in her real voice this time, which sounded squeakier than I would have guessed.

  “No. I’m not a cop.”

  “So what are you? Besides creepy, I mean.”

  Her friends laughed, but my parents did not acknowledge them. I hoped my father wouldn’t answer by explaining his occupation, so what he said relieved me. “I’m just a worried parent. That’s all.”

  Who can predict the way people will react to a basic truth? I would not have guessed that my father’s words would cause that girl to quit teasing, but they did. She smiled and told him, “Sorry to say, there’s not been anybody like that here tonight.”

  “Maybe you can try Fun and Games over in Silver Springs,” another of the girls with the same ropy bracelets suggested. “That place is open for another hour. Right, Duane?”

  The skateboarder nodded and mumbled directions. My father thanked them and we were on our way. But a short while later we arrived in Silver Springs to find no sign of the truck there, either. Since the place was open, my father got out of the car. I had never been inside an arcade before, and if I asked to come in with him, I knew he’d tell me to stay behind. So I didn’t ask. I just opened my door and got out too. My father looked at me, surprised, but didn’t resist. After we stepped into the flashing lights, he weaved among the clusters of teenagers to a booth in the back where he spoke to the manager. I used the opportunity to take in those machines, blinking and buzzing away. A group of girls huddled around a game until it released a series of disappointing beeps and they stomped off. In the wake of their departure, I approached and stared at the round, yellow face on the screen, the pink bow, the dots in the maze. I put my hand on the control but had no money to make it work.

  I’m guessing you like Ms. Pac-Man and Ping-Pong . . .

  The girl doesn’t like any of the normal things kids her age like . . .

  “Ready, Sylvie?” my father said from behind me.

  “Can I play?”

  “Play? Now?”

  “Just a quick one. It’s only twenty-five cents.”

  My father sighed. “Sylvie, you are far too bright to waste your time with this nonsense. Besides, we need to get back to looking for your sister.”

  “But I don’t want to,” I said before I could stop myself.

 
My father grew quiet, same as when my mother challenged him in the car. In that video screen, I could see his blurry reflection—tilted head, raised eyebrows—a look usually reserved for Rose. “You don’t want to look for your sister?”

  “It’s like you said about Uncle Howie. Maybe it’s better we keep our distance. Let her do what she wants, since she’s the one who chose to go with him.”

  “This is nothing like the situation with your uncle. He’s a grown man. Your sister is a kid. Now I’m not sure what’s gotten into you, but I won’t have you acting out too. You’re our good daughter. The one we rely on and trust to do what we need. Right now what we need is to get back to finding Rose. So let go of that game and follow me.”

  I took a breath. If Rose’s behavior had proved one thing, it was that it was easier to give my father the daughter he wanted. That daughter pulled her hand away. That daughter followed him outside.

  The Mustang. The Teeter-Totter. The Frog Pond. Those were just a few of the bars where we stopped so my father could inquire if anyone had seen them. But no one had. At each place, I waited in the car with my mother, listening to the rain pound on the roof. At last, after one in the morning, she suggested we call it quits.

  “You want to stop?” my father said.

  “It’s not that I want to, Sylvester. But I don’t know what more we can do at the moment. It’s apparent we aren’t going to find her out here tonight.”

  “Maybe they headed back to Howie’s apartment in Tampa? It’s only a hundred miles away. They could be there by now.”

  “It’s a possibility. But even so, I don’t think we should drive there without knowing for sure. Better we go back to the hotel and call first. At the very least, we can leave a message telling her to let us know where she is so we can come get her.”

  Reluctantly, my father turned the car around while my mother continued staring out that window. “I suppose you’re right,” he said once we were headed in the opposite direction. “We don’t have much choice, do we?”