Witches and Ghosts Supernatural Mysteries

by Angela Pepper

  Stop. I can't think about Austin, because it hurts too much. Of course, I can't not think about her.

  I check the signs to make sure I'm heading in the right direction, and I begin the long walk home. Walking should clear my head, and the day after tomorrow, I'll have Heidi and Newt clear my head. I should be afraid, but I'm not. I try to figure out what I'm feeling, but I can't put a word to it. I think this is what people mean when they say numb.

  As I leave Chinatown and walk past residential streets, I pass people parking their cars and bringing cases of beer and food into houses. Other folks are standing on porches and in yards, firing up barbecues. The scent of grilling burgers wafts through the air, along with people laughing.

  I walk past a modest-sized house with a dozen small children racing about the yard on the rain-dampened grass, soaking each other with water guns. Now somebody, an uncle maybe, races out with water balloons and the children swarm him with glee. Next door, a garage band warms up.

  So much life here, in the world. What do I look like to them, as I walk past their parties and their family gatherings? Nobody. I'm nobody. They might notice me for an instant, like a smudge of ink on their perfect postcard lives, but they quickly look away. I'm on the other side of the glass.

  * * *

  Back at home, I try to watch some TV, but there's nothing good on. I go to the computer and start organizing my digital photos into separate folders, but even looking at my work doesn't interest me. Nothing interests me.

  Raye-Anne has sent a text to me, as well as James and Julie, inviting us to her house, but I politely decline, citing a sudden bout of stomach flu. I can't see Julie and face her questions about what happened at Austin's house. They'd all ask me about what I'm going to do next, and why.

  It's simple: I'm going to meet with a crazy witch named Heidi and her friend Newt, and they're going to relieve me of my power, along with the memories I no longer wish to have. I don't know what the process will do to me, but Gran will be home soon, so Mibs will get his insulin on time, no matter what happens to me. I can do whatever I want to my brain, with a clear conscience.

  I should prepare myself for losing some of my memories.

  Since I won't have any recollection of certain key events in my life, it might be best to write the basic details down for my future, happier, unburdened self. That is the plan. I think my future self could read about my memories, to learn them in the abstract sense, and be unaffected emotionally. I've read about awful things in history books, yet they don't take up space in my head. My past doesn't have to be a secret, it just needs to be watered down.

  I pull some paper out of the computer printer, get a pen, and sprawl out on the peony-covered living room rug. Handwritten, it'll have to be. I don't trust the computer with something so important.

  “Dear Zan,” I write.

  Wait, how can I write when I'm suddenly so thirsty?

  I get up, go to the kitchen, and boil water for tea. The lady said to start the herbal tea tomorrow, but why would anyone want to delay a cure for his acne? The future, happier version of me will appreciate having clear skin.

  The tea mixture is loose, so I have to use a strainer to keep all the sticks and leaves out of the water. It's funny how tea is actually dirty water, made brown by whatever comes off the tea leaves. People sometimes call coffee mud, but tea is just as much mud.

  Once brewed, the tea smells like cut grass, ashes, and lemon zest. I take a sip and find it's not bad, but I fish around in the cupboard and find Gran's Peppermint Schnapps—up high where she thinks I can't find it—and add a good glug of the Schnapps to my hot tea.

  Not bad. Not bad at all! I think my skin is tingling already. I should get back to writing that letter to myself.

  Of course, more tea means clearer skin, so I pour another cup, complete with Schnapps. I usually stay away from indulging in more than one drink with alcohol in it, because booze makes me think about my mother, which then makes me think about my father, and the things my family whispered after their deaths.

  I return to the rug and my pen and paper. The tea is making me remember, and I don't like to remember, but I'll go back to the pain, this one last time. I grip the pen in my left hand as best I can to not smear the ink, and begin to write.

  * * *

  Dear Zan,

  In case you forget, you should know you promised to marry Julie if you're both still single at twenty-eight. Twenty-eight is too soon to get married, but really, you could do worse. Julie does a lot of ballet and tap dancing, so she'll probably keep you active as you both get old together. Maybe she could dye her hair so she doesn't look quite so much like James.

  Remember to pick up more Peppermint Schnapps for Gran. The store on the corner knows the both of you and lets you buy it without ID, so long as it's no more than once every few months. But wait, I'm sure you will still remember those details.

  The main reason you've lost some memory is because you had a brain tumor. Ha ha, just kidding. If you knew the whole story, you'd see the humor in that.

  No, seriously, it's because you fell in love with a girl who didn't love you back, either because she didn't like you as much as you thought, or because she is dying. Was dying. Is dead now. Probably. Don't worry about it either way. You should date some other nice girls, except not Raye-Anne, or any of the girls at school, unless they are new students. Wait until college, maybe. And whatever you do, don't go out with any girl who has a pierced tongue. Long story.

  When you get your memory tidied up, you're going to lose a chunk from when you were five. It's not anything you're going to need in life, but I will say this: do not join any cults.

  Your parents were nice people once. They were a bit daffy, hence your name, Zaniel, but they were good, or at least they meant to be good. Your father, Dan, was not as interested in sharing their love as your mother was. Your mother didn't think she was doing anything wrong, so she didn't think to lie or cover her tracks.

  So, you were five, and so small that night when your father got you out of bed and made you sit in the kitchen with him, waiting for your mother to return. He sharpened his big knife and made you test how well it worked by running it along your palms. He grabbed you by the wrists and squeezed the blood into a bowl.

  You may wonder why I'm telling you this, since the point is to unburden you of this memory, but I feel some knowledge of the events is important. Try not to picture the events happening, but know the facts. I am truly sorry if this is upsetting.

  Once your father had your blood in the bowl, he used the blood to draw on the table, and on your face, and on his. He said some words, and you didn't know what they meant, and you were very frightened. You tried to sneak out of your chair and hide in your room, but he pulled you out from under the bed and made you sorry you disobeyed.

  So, he sharpened the knife and you both waited for your mom to come home. The time passed very fast and also very slow. You thought you could save her. You worked out a plan. She would open the door and you would tell her everything, and the two of you would run down the road, away from your father.

  But when she came in the door, she told you to shut up. She started yelling and screaming and crying and pleading with your father. She was only making him more angry, and you begged her to stop, but she didn't stop. Not until your father stabbed her. He cut into her so lovingly, as though he was looking for her heart, so he could fix it.

  Before he shot himself, he told you he was going to give you something, so you would never be betrayed by a woman like he was. You wanted to ask him what he meant, but then he put the pistol in his mouth, upside down, like he was trying to make himself throw up.

  I am sorry.

  I am so sorry.

  Try not to think about it.

  - Zan

  * * *

  Morning? I can see the clock on the mantle from where I am on the floral-patterned rug, and it's eight o'clock. That makes no sense, unless it's actually morning, and I've slept on the floor a
ll night. I look out the window to check, and quickly close my eyes against the glare. The early light feels cruel, the sun too hot.

  My cheek rests in a puddle of drool, and I'm not alone. Mibs is bunting me with the top of his head and purring. I don't know whose drool this is. This drool could be anyone's.

  “Mibs, was I floating around outside of my body last night?”

  He flicks his tail and glances toward his food dish, using his subtle kitty-cat mind control. In a second, he'll start licking his lips, suggesting a can of yummy soft food, but for now he's happy to rub his butt in my face. I scratch him over the tail and pull myself upright.

  I study the handwritten pages partially stuck to my arm. I do not remember writing any of this. I had the tea, and some Schnapps—not much, I swear—and then ... what?

  The memory of last night's activities comes back like a tidal wave.

  I left my body.

  I left my body on the ground, here on the rug, as evidenced by the nubby rug dimples all over my skin, and I went for a walk around the neighborhood. Naked. Or was I naked? I walked without my clothes, but also without my body.

  That's new!

  I may be a seventeen-year old boy who consorts with witches and gets psychic visions when girls stick their fingers in my belly button, but I do not typically leave my body. What's that even called? I think I read a book about the phenomenon once: astral projection. What the heck does astral mean?

  And how can I have some new thing to worry about?

  I turn Mibs around so his butt's not in my face and get him calmed down while I check my cell phone for messages. There's one from last night: Julie saying she heard Austin was going in for surgery in the morning. That would be this morning. Austin's in surgery right now.

  I shiver as I think about her lying on a cold, metal surgical table. She wouldn't like that, and I know, because the night she spent with me, she complimented my ultra-soft bed as she curled up next to me. She laughed as I took handfuls of her long, silky hair and fanned it out across both of us.

  “I normally braid my hair before I go to sleep,” she said. This was late that night, about three in the morning, when the sky was pink with the promise of dawn. I told her I'd give up blankets forever, if I could have her hair to cover me. She said, running her finger down the center of my face, “For you, I'll never braid my hair again.”

  “Do you promise?” I asked, and she said I might change my mind when I woke up tangled in her hair. I said I'd be the judge of that, and I grabbed her and held her closer.

  “We should get some sleep,” I said, nuzzling her soft neck. She practically melted into me, then she kissed me, and I knew I wasn't getting to sleep any time soon.

  As I think about the night we shared, I feel unbearable joy and pain together. In my mind, I force myself to step back from the two people on the soft bed, tangled up in hair, and close the door. After my memory is taken, that door will be permanently closed, and that will be better for me.

  To think—I went two weeks trying to forget about her when I should have been trying to see her.

  No, I can't think about the time lost. It's too awful. I mean, this isn't about me. So I lose a girl I happen to like—big whoop. I'll move on, and I may love again, because I'll still be alive.

  Who it's awful for is her, her family, and the world that keeps turning without her. I know she's not the only person tragedy happens to, though that thought holds no comfort. It's awful that any girl her age, full of so much potential and light, could die.

  Austin was so confident and sure of herself the night we met. She didn't have a care in the world—I guess because she knew none of what she did mattered.

  But I can't think about her, or the next day before I meet with Heidi and Newt is going to stretch out like a multi-lifetime prison sentence.

  I can hear Mibs throwing his body at the cupboard door, like an anvil on wobbly pegs. I get up, my body as swift as wet bags of sand. Has my body always hurt so much? Every part of me aches. I wonder if my body is angry at me for leaving it last night and running naked around the streets of town—assuming that actually happened. I couldn't have left my body, though, could I? Did I astrally project?

  As Mibs weaves between my legs, I pull out his treats and get his insulin needle ready. I tap the needle to get the air bubble out.

  Insulin.

  I have a lot of insulin. A dark thought passes through me like a jolt. Painless. With an overdose, you go into a coma and then you die. I have five, six little vials of cat insulin. The human dosage is obviously different than a cat's, but the vet did warn us about accidental pricks. I could load them up one at a time and inject them in my leg. Not that I would, but if I had to, I could. If something went wrong.

  That's not for you, says a familiar voice in my head. What is that voice all about? Is the voice my conscience, or what?

  Don't matter—the voice is right. Suicide is not the answer, because it doesn't solve anything.

  I'm just overreacting emotionally, the way James and Julie say I do. Maybe it's because of my gift, like Heidi said.

  I give Mibs his shot and then his treats. I am rewarded with drool-soaked kisses, which make me feel better. I am needed here in this world.

  Tidying up the counter, I sniff the herbal tea, which triggers a surprising reaction. Suddenly, I'm vomiting up spit and bile into the kitchen sink. I don't know if I could feel worse—surely if I could actually leave my body at will, I'd do so now.

  * * *

  The rest of the day, I clean the house. I really go to town, too. I mean, I even scrub the toilet, with the sudsy stuff and the nasty old brush. The frozen pizza boxes should get recycled, but I don't want Gran to know I've been eating so poorly, so I throw them in the garbage, then my conscience has me pull them out and put them in the paper recycling box.

  Gran always talks about how cleaning the house improves one's mood. She says the difference between a happy person and a sad person is a tidy home, and nobody can feel bad with recently-laundered bedding. Even something as simple as fresh sheets can give you something to look forward to, and happiness comes from looking forward, not back.

  I'm looking forward to being free of my power and free of my memories. I wish Newt had been willing to reschedule his bridge club so we could get this over with today instead of tomorrow.

  I get out the vacuum and go over every room, including Gran's, even though nobody's been in here for weeks. Her nightstand is covered in framed photos of me and her. I pick one up, see Gran's radiant, loving face, and I miss her so much my jaw aches. Poor Gran, who lost her only child, my mother. How did she get over the loss? And then her husband, my grandfather—the one who's now bowling in heaven. Gran keeps going, keeps loving. Even if it means loving ... Rudy.

  Did my phone just ring? I turn off the vacuum to check, but I must have imagined the ringing.

  I feel as though I'm expecting a call—waiting for someone to contact me with the results of Austin's surgery, even though nobody in her family even knows I exist. I guess her pretend-husband saw me, but it was more in the way a tiger sees some lesser creature—like a little wrinkly mole—and changes his path so he doesn't get his feet dirty stepping on the creature.

  He should still call me. I deserve a call, at least to let me know if she's alive or dead.

  I pull out my phone and dial Julie's number. Austin's cousin is her friend, so maybe she's heard.

  Breathlessly, Julie asks, “You don't know?”

  We haven't spoken since she dropped me off at the house, so I fill her in on what happened yesterday afternoon—how Austin had seemed happy to see me, but then her mood changed and she sent me away. “Now I'm just hanging here, in the dark, not knowing,” I say.

  “Oh, I see what she did there,” Julie says. “She chased you away, so you couldn't be hurt. For your own good. Like in the movies, when the family releases the wild animal back into the forest, and they have to yell at the animal, so it can be free.”

  �
�You think she was releasing me to the wild? Why would someone do that? That doesn't make any sense. Why chase away someone who cares about you?” I'm still in Gran's room, and I sit down on her floral bedspread, which smells of her perfume.

  Over the phone, Julie makes the sound of a bubble popping. “That's life.”

  I wail something wordless and wounded-animal-sounding into the phone.

  “Let me make a few calls,” Julie says. “Maybe the surgery went great. Maybe you guys can talk this all out. I'll call you right back.”

  I put the vacuum cleaner away and pace, wobbling between sad and angry. Angry feels better. I'm angry Austin pushed me away instead of leveling with me. I'm angry that I care so much about a girl I barely know.

  I'm staring at the phone, willing it to ring, when Julie's face pops up on the screen. It's a photo I took of her pulling her lower eyelids down and her nose up in a goofy face. She's wearing a miniature red top hat, at her last tap dance recital. My hands are paralyzed. I can't answer it, I think, but hands shaking, I do.

  Julie starts talking, quickly. Her tone is enigmatic. I am listening for words like unfortunately or sorry or miraculously, but instead, she says coma.

  “Can you repeat that last bit?” I ask.

  “Austin's out of surgery, and stable, but she's in a coma.”

  Chapter 16

  Julie has some more details about the surgery, but her words blur. Austin's alive, which is good, but she's in a coma. I can't go to her side, because I'm not immediate family. Julie says she gave my name and number to someone else in the family, an aunt who is in charge of the phone tree.

  I've never heard of a phone tree before, but apparently people do them in these situations. One person has a list of, say, five people she's responsible for calling, and then each of them phones five people, and so on, and so on. You'd think it would be replaced nowadays with texts and emails, but then again, some news probably shouldn't be texted.

  I imagine the message I might have sent after what happened to my parents, if I'd been old enough to text: Hey Gran. Can I come live with u? Dad killed Mom and himself. Long story. CU L8R