Diary of a Part Time Ghost (Ghosts & Shadows Book 1)

by Vered Ehsani

  “Because it’s the right thing to do,” I replied honestly.

  The man snorted and glared at me, but before he could respond, the woman calmly interrupted. “East Wind, leave him alone. He speaks the truth.”

  East Wind reluctantly stood up while the woman came forward and knelt beside us. She pulled out a short, sharp knife from somewhere. I was just a tad nervous, and I sighed in relief when she used the knife to cut the ropes. While I massaged my wrists, she released Sara as well. The woman, Eagle Song, made the introductions for her friends. I stared incredulously at one of the men whom she had called John. The man was dressed in the same way as the others; he couldn’t have been more un-Johnlike if he tried. He also sounded like he was more comfortable in English than in the native language the others sometimes switched to. The five adults then stared at me, as if waiting.

  “Oh … I’m Ashish, but call me Ash, and this is Sara, and we’re looking for her little brother, who may have been carried off by a big cat.”

  “Welcome, Ash and Sara,” Eagle Song greeted us, and I wondered if she had understood the part about a child being carried away by a ferocious predator. If she did, she didn’t seem too concerned about it.

  Sara dug an elbow into my side. “What do they want with us?” she whispered, as if I was now the designated speaker.

  Before I could reply, John stepped forward and grabbed the zipper on the jacket Sara was wearing. She shrunk back slightly, eyeing the paint markings on John’s face.

  “This is a strange fabric indeed,” John murmured. “I’ve seen nothing like this.”

  “Ah huh,” I mumbled, and then glanced at East Wind. Something about his hair style seemed familiar. Wanting to change the conversation away from the odd clothing, I asked, “Are you Mohawks?” And then I wished I hadn’t.

  East Wind glanced contemptibly at me, his eyes sharp. “That’s what our enemies call us,” he replied, his voice cold. Oh dear. “We are the Kanien'keháka. Our allies call us the Keepers of the Eastern Door.”

  “Oh,” I responded faintly. “Well, that’s um … that’s quite impressive.” I noticed John suddenly staring at me intently; something in the man’s eyes made me uncomfortable, but I couldn’t quite place what. I cleared my throat and continued, “Well, Sara and I are looking for her brother. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is? Blue eyes, about this tall?”

  John continued watching me, while Eagle Song answered, “Yes, we do.”

  I felt my heart speed up. “Is he all right? Where is he?”

  “John will take you to him,” the woman replied enigmatically, her tone neutral and giving no indication if the boy was alive or was no more than little bits of bone left over from the cougar’s lunch. John didn’t look too enthusiastic about his appointed task, and East Wind’s scowl deepened, but no one argued. With a sharp gesture to us, John immediately spun about and marched away through the trees, not bothering to check if we were following.

  “We’re going with him? Do we have to?” Sara asked tremulously as I tugged at her arm to follow. “I don’t feel good about that man.”

  She wasn’t the only one. I whispered confidently, “Don’t worry. As soon as we find Samuel, we’ll go our own way.”

  “I hope they haven’t eaten him!” she exclaimed fervently, her hands clenched into fists.

  I rolled my eyes in disbelief. “I’m sure they haven’t.”

  “Oh, you never know,” she continued earnestly. “The sailors told me horrible stories of what these natives are capable of doing.”

  Well, I had to bite my lip on that one. I was sure “these natives” probably had their own horror stories of what Europeans were capable of doing too. Finally, I spoke. “You should be careful what you believe.”

  We walked on in silence, and I began to wonder if it was time to say good-bye. It was exhausting living in two different time zones. Sara was safe and apparently so was Samuel. They would be reunited, and surely Eagle Song would help them find their father. At any rate, it really wasn’t my job to baby-sit them, ancestors or not, and hadn’t I done enough?

  As I was mulling over the idea, Sara patted me on the shoulder. “Thank you, Ash,” she said sincerely. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. You’re a good friend.”

  Ouch. Glad for the growing evening darkness that hid my guilty expression, I swallowed hard. “Yeah, no problem,” I managed to say. So, decision made. I wasn’t leaving. Then, addressing John, I asked, “Where are we going?”

  John quickly glanced back at me. In that brief moment, the man’s shadow suddenly lunged up from the ground and wrapped dark tentacles around our guide’s face. Before I could react (scream, run away, etc), the shadow vanished. John replied calmly, with a dark glimmer in his eyes, “Home, Ashish. We’re going home.”

  Chapter 10

  So we had been captured, our guide was under the influence of shadows, and we were stuck with him until he led us to Samuel. Yeah, I think that about sums it up. I was still shaking when, a few moments later, we entered the village of the Kanien'keháka just as snow began to fall in heavy gusts. Three large, wood-frame buildings, covered with sheets of tree bark loomed above us, and we were led into one of them. The spacious longhouse was divided into rooms with woven reed mats and wooden screens, and was lit up with candles and a couple of small fireplaces. I studiously avoided looking at the walls where dancing shadows were cast by the flickering flames. I also avoided making eye contact with John. It had been a while since I had seen any shadow behaving strangely, so what had happened? I shivered.

  People stared openly at us as we walked down the length of the longhouse—I guess we kind of stood out—but their activities continued uninterrupted. Around one fireplace, a group of young men were having a heated conversation. While one of them talked, some of his listeners nodded in agreement while others shook their heads in disapproval. At the back of the longhouse, John gestured for us to enter a small room with a pile of skins pushed against one of the woven walls. Sitting atop the pile was Samuel, examining a bow and arrow. As we entered, he looked up.

  “Sara!” he exclaimed while sliding down the furs.

  “Oh, thank heavens they didn’t eat you!” Sara gushed as she hugged her protesting brother and then ruffled his hair.

  I tried not to look too disgusted, but Samuel grinned playfully. “No, not even a nibble on my toes! Look at my bow and arrow!” He proudly held them up.

  While I was relieved to see Samuel alive and well, I was just as relieved when John slipped away. Curious about the very animated conversation of the group of young men nearby, I walked toward them. One of them immediately offered his translating services.

  “The colonists are boycotting tea sold by the British East India Company,” my self-appointed translator explained. “And now, the British government is trying to break the boycott with these ships. We’re trying to decide whose side we’re on.”

  Unsure what the explanation actually meant, apart from trouble, I glanced at Sara and Samuel, who were huddled on the fur, watching me apprehensively. Their worried faces reminded me of my real question. “My friends’ father is in Boston, waiting for them. Is it possible for us to go there?”

  “It may not be safe to go,” a familiar voice behind me responded. I spun about to see John looming behind me. “There are many rallies in protest. But I will see what I can do.”

  “You can just point the way,” I suggested nervously, not wanting to risk seeing that shadow again, but John had already walked away and didn’t seem to hear me. Shrugging, I unsuccessfully tried to suppress a yawn. Rubbing my eyes, I watched Sara tuck a fur blanket around Samuel, who was telling her to stop treating him like a baby even as he started to fall asleep. I peered down the great length of the longhouse. Outside the main entrance, a large fire crackled and brightened up the cool night. Snowflakes were still falling, but not heavily now. They swirled about in gentle breezes. Voices murmured softly in the background. It was too relaxing.

 
I stretched my arms above my head and then quietly said, “I need to go.”

  Sara frowned as she clenched her hands together nervously, but her voice was steady as she asked in a casual tone, “Will you come back?”

  “Yes,” I stated assertively. “I don’t know when for sure. But I’ll try as soon as possible. I just need to get a decent night’s sleep in my bed, instead of crunched up in my chair.” I yawned widely. “If I fall asleep here, I wake up with my face flat on my desk and a horrible pain in my neck. See you.”

  Ignoring Sara’s confused expression, I padded quietly through the longhouse and then walked briskly through the small village, hoping no one would stop me. When I reached the darkness of the forest, I shifted my focus and saw my form fade into translucent colors and then further into an almost transparent, ghostly form. I was about to focus on the veil when a voice made me pause. I drifted through the underbrush to get closer, until I could see East Wind and John. They too seemed to be having a rather heated discussion, although John remained calm, sitting on a log and carving a piece of wood into a figurine, while East Wind paced in front of him. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but I did see John’s face change somehow as a familiar darkness shifted behind him, and then abruptly the men moved back toward the village.

  “Probably the same topic as the young men were discussing,” I mused, and then shook my head in bewilderment. “I really should pay more attention in history class.” But it was not just my lack of historical understanding that disturbed me as I slipped through the veil and into my bed.

  Chapter 11

  “Don’t answer the door.”

  It was the dream that woke me, the dream with a key floating in the middle of a snowy clearing. I was trying to hear a message that the wind whispered around me, but I was distracted. The shadowy hunter was in the foggy forest, circling me, but before it could attack, I heard a bell, and then a voice chimed out softly, “Don’t answer the door. Don’t let him in.”

  I woke up and stared sleepily into blackness that was softened by the faint glow of light from the street lamp. I could just barely make out the edges of the furniture in my room. I yawned and lazily glanced at my clock. The glowing numbers showed 3:28 a.m. That’s just way too early to be remotely civilized. I lay still, waiting to fall back asleep, wondering why the ending of the dream had changed again. My eyelids fluttered heavily and then snapped open.

  Someone was in my room.

  A girl’s voice whispered from a corner. Too tired to feel scared, I twisted my head slightly. I was quite sure that there would be no one there, only some ghostly voice that would disappear in a moment, the echo of a long-dead girl. You know, the normal situation for me. I shifted onto my side and gazed more deeply into the corner.

  She stared back. She was in my room, crouching in the corner directly opposite from me, and she was definitely watching me. Okay, that was new. Add “seeing phantom images” to the list of weird in my life. As if I needed more. I half-rolled, half-jumped out of bed. I then fell with a painful smack onto the floor, my legs entangled in my blanket, my knees hurting. Smooth. My gaze, though, remained fixed on the girl. Her eyes, full of surprise and disbelief, followed my clumsy attempts to free myself. Her hesitant hand reached out toward me, as if to check if I was real.

  I finally scrambled to my feet, and she too rose. I could tell she wasn’t solid, but she was almost completely opaque, much clearer than before. And quite clearly, she was as aware of me as I was of her. She spoke in a language that was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. Then she gazed at me expectantly.

  “I don’t understand,” I explained, and her forehead creased in confusion. It was obvious that my language was as alien to her as hers was to me. “The book!” I exclaimed, my fatigue forgotten. I don’t know why I thought that it could help at all. That didn’t make any sense. Then again, not much of the past week really did. So I leaned toward my desk and snatched up the leather-bound Book of History, its weight reassuring in my shaking hands. The girl studied me, curious as to my actions.

  “Maybe you’re in here,” I gushed as I opened the cover.

  The room shook. It wasn’t just a quivering of vision or a distortion of air. The room actually physically shook, and I vaguely wondered if anyone else in the house had felt it. The girl definitely seemed to feel it, for she pulled back into the shadowy corner, her dark eyes wide with a glimmer of fear, and she began to fade.

  “Please wait,” I tried to plead, and stretched out an arm toward her. This time the book shook violently in my grip and then slammed shut. A great gush of air smacked onto my chest and I was flung backward. My head crashed into the side of my bed, adding more pain on top of the two bruised knees, and I had to stifle a shout. When the stars and flashing lights cleared from my vision, the girl was gone and the energy that had momentarily filled me drained away, to be replaced by a deepening fatigue. Despondently and painfully, I pulled myself into bed, and lay awake for some time. Birds had begun their pre-dawn chorus when finally exhaustion dragged me down into the depths of a dreamless (thank heavens) sleep.

  It was the sound of Anjali shouting at Gita that finally woke me up.

  “I know you took it!” Anjali yelled. Did they have to have a shouting match right outside my door?

  “Did not, did not, did not,” Gita retorted angrily and at the same volume. I guess they did.

  I could hear Gita running down the hall, shrieking excitedly, the thumping of the floorboards reaching into my head. Groaning, I pulled my pillow over my head, to block out the noise and the light that streamed in full-force through the window. The pillow barely muffled the ensuing argument. I then vaguely wondered why my curtains were open. Hadn’t they been shut?

  Sara.

  I sat up so suddenly that my vision momentarily spun the world around my head, which still ached (along with my knees) where I had knocked it earlier that morning. Barely able to wait for my vision to clear, I gazed about the room, searching the floor for the book. First thing I noticed was that my floor had been cleared of all items. The next thing I realized was that everything had been cleared. The book wasn’t there.

  My breath sharp in my lungs, I frantically scanned the room more carefully. It didn’t take very long for me to know for certain that the book just was not there. As that realization sunk in, I noticed a tall shadow sneaking across the wall toward my desk. The silhouette reminded me of my mom, but she wasn’t anywhere near my room. It stopped and silently turned to face me. Not good.

  Bruised knees and throbbing head forgotten, I burst out of my room and dashed in between Anjali and Gita, who were still arguing. They barely looked at me as I passed by, and continued their shouting match, their shadows gripping each other by the throat with overly long, claw-like fingers. Pounding down the stairs, I dashed into the kitchen, slipping slightly on the tiles, which had just been washed. I thumped into the table and grimaced as it made violent contact with my hip. Hey, look, I was collecting bruises! Shanti, who was sitting at the table reading, eyed my disheveled clothes and distracted eyes.

  “Nice one, bro,” she said. “And for your next trick?”

  I pretty much ignored her, grateful that her shadow remained fixed in its proper place. “Mom, have you seen my book? It’s old, kind of scrappy-looking, has a leather cover.” I held my breath as Mom looked up from the newspaper she was flipping through.

  “Hmm …” Mom hummed and tapped her fingers on the counter while gazing up at the ceiling and contemplating the question. Shanti smirked, as if she knew what was coming. “Oh, yes,” Mom continued. “This morning, I came into your room to see if you were still breathing, and apparently you were. I gazed around and found myself surrounded by about three days’ worth of dirty clothes. While I cleared those up, I believe I happened upon a book matching that description.”

  I grimaced. The past few days, I had been too tired to even make it to the laundry basket in the hall and had thrown my dirty clothes on the floor in
order to collapse into bed. In the mornings, I had rushed past the growing pile with even less concern. In my defense, I had been a bit distracted by the adventures transpiring on the other side of the veil. I really had good intentions to clean up the mess, but somehow I had never had time or energy.

  “Ah, yeah,” I mumbled. “I’m really sorry about the mess. I … I’ve … do you have it?”

  “It’s in the Mess Box,” she responded serenely.

  I really believe my heart almost stopped beating for a few seconds. Shanti whistled in sympathy and then commented, “Oh, Ash, guess you won’t be doing your homework this week!”

  “Speaking of homework,” Mom murmured as she flipped over another page of the newspaper and her shadow stalked into the kitchen, “have you started on that history essay yet?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m right on it,” Shanti blurted out as she stood up and headed for the door, leaving me staring dejectedly at the watching shadow, knowing that my one hope of keeping the shadows away (not to mention helping Sara) lay in an impenetrable stronghold. Sunday was vacuum day, and anything left on the floor was picked up and placed in the Mess Box, where it remained for a week before the offender was allowed to have it back. It was how my mom taught us to clean up after ourselves. My book was staying in that box for one week. I knew better than to argue. Even begging my mom wouldn’t help. All of us had tried that before, including my dad, and it never worked. But this situation was a little more urgent than usual.

  “Um, Mom,” I began, “I need that book. Really. It’s an emergency. I …”

  Mom glanced up, and for a brief moment she actually hesitated. Perhaps it was the look of sheer desperation on my face that softened her resolve. Hope flickered within me, and then her shadow moved. Long, inky black fingers wrapped themselves over her eyes for a second, and when the tentacles retreated, the momentary leniency went with them. She closed her eyes and held up her hand in a dramatic pose, somehow managing to look dignified and commanding in a faded, flowery house coat and with rollers in her hair. Her shadow mimicked her while mocking me. Or at least, I felt like it was.