Copyright © 2014 by Sherry Ficklin
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Cover concept and design by Marya Heiman Copyright © 2014 by Clean Teen Publishing
Editing done by Cynthia Shepp
Haunting Zoe is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s over-active imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Clean Teen Publishing
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As I stand there, looking down at my body, I can’t help but wonder where my clothes went. I suppose the dude hosing me off took them, but I can’t be sure. I blink as he flicks on a large, round light overhead. It’s cold in here, or maybe it’s just that standing in a morgue, watching some random stranger poke and prod your lifeless corpse, is enough to give even a dead guy the chills.
I should leave. But there’s a twisted need to watch over myself, make sure nobody mishandles my body. Stupid, I suppose, but undeniable.
He finishes the hose bath just as his assistant, an older woman with gray hair and rectangular glasses, walks in, completely oblivious to my nudity, and hangs a suit on the coatrack. “His father just dropped this off,” she says curtly, leaving the room without a second glance.
As she rounds the table, her arm brushes through me. I don’t feel it at all, and she doesn’t seem to either. I glance down, not at my body, but at myself as I stand there. My dark denim jeans are loose around my waist, supported by a thick, brown leather belt. My grey t-shirt is clean—considering—and my brown boots are tied tightly. Basically, I look the same as I did two days ago… when I woke up and found myself hovering over my corpse as police fished it out of the river.
The shock and panic has faded into a dull ache, a numbness I can’t quite explain. Nothing feels real anymore. I close my eyes, thinking of my best friend Bruno. In a heartbeat, I feel the air around me change, warming. The smell of cherry pie wafts through the air, and I know I’m gone. When I open my eyes, I’m in his kitchen—a place I’m very familiar with. How many days had we sat at this granite counter and talked about sports, homework, and girls? How many nights did he have massive pizzas delivered while we studied for tests and worked on projects? Now he sits in his chair, shoving a single cherry around his crumb-filled plate with his fork while holding his head up with a balled fist. He’s not smiling, but he’s not crying either. Unlike the scene at my house where my mother wails constantly, and my father barely leaves my bedroom. The grief can be overwhelming. Somehow, watching them suffer makes this whole thing worse.
Taking a seat beside him, I slide into the chair without having to move it. I wish he could hear me. I need someone to talk to—someone who can help me figure out what’s going on.
I never thought much about death when I was alive, I suppose I just took for granted that I would have plenty of time for that later. There was never a doubt in my mind that when you died, you went to heaven or whatever came next. But this isn’t next, and it certainly isn’t heaven.
There’s a white card beside his plate. Leaning over, I see the words, which are embossed in gold.
Shenendoah Funeral Home
Sunday, September 7th. 2pm.
Please join us in saying farewell to Logan Cooper.
Wake from 2-3pm. Graveside service at 4pm.
September 7th?
I stand up, walking right through the counter to the stainless steel refrigerator, where a paper calendar is held up with magnets. That’s tomorrow.
How long have I been dead? Days maybe, though I have to admit the passage of time is a little harder to keep track of now that I don’t sleep anymore. Even so, the last thing I remember was…being at a summer pool party with my friends. That had to be weeks ago.
I turn back to Bruno, who reluctantly eats his last bite of food, and then stands up.
“What happened to me?” I ask out loud, knowing he can’t hear me.
His eyes snap up. For a frantic moment, I think he’s looking right at me. Then I realize he’s looking through me, at the calendar. He sets his plate in the sink and walks through me. Taking the marker out of the little holder on the side of the calendar, he leans forward, crossing off the date.
Correction. My funeral is today.
I close my eyes again, opening them in Kaylee’s bright pink bedroom. She’s lounging on her bed in a tank top and shorts. Her feet are propped up on her fluffy pillows, and her hand hangs off the end while she talks on the phone.
“I don’t know if I can make it,” she says with a deep sigh.
I can’t hear the conversation on the other end, but she rolls her eyes.
“I know,” she responds. “But I don’t think I can do it. I mean, sit there and stare at his casket. It’s not… I still can’t believe it.”
I sit next to her on the bed. Her face is flawless, not red or blotchy, even though her eyes are rimmed in pink, a telltale sign that she either has been crying, or is about to. Goodness knows I’ve seen those eyes enough over the last year. I glance at her nightstand. The large, blue frame that used to hold a photo of us at the winter formal last year now sits empty. In typical Kaylee fashion, she’d probably burned it after we had a fight, using the ashes to put some kind of crazy girlfriend hex on me. That happened often enough too.
“Are you going to be there?” she asks, the ghost of a smile crossing her lips. “I should be there too. I’ve got to put this whole thing behind me and move on.”
She hangs up without saying goodbye, tossing the phone onto the bed beside her.
I frown. Moving on sounds great. If only I could do the same.
“I suppose I’m dead,” I say out loud, as she flips over onto her stomach. I see for the first time that there’s a little box on the floor at the end of the bed, full of photos. She picks one out. It’s a photo she took of me at the beach last summer.
“And I know you can’t hear me but… I want to say I’m sorry.”
She stares at the photo, oblivious.
“I mean, I wasn’t a great boyfriend. I know that. And you… well, let’s face it, you sucked as a girlfriend. But you were always special to me, I guess.” I rub my eyes. “God, I suck at this. I guess I just want to say goodbye.”
As if in response, she grabs the photo by the corners and tears, ripping my face in half.
“Goodbye, Logan,” she mutters and tosses the ripped picture aside.
***
I stand outside the funeral home for a long time, just watching people gather. There are a lot of people, half of them I don’t even recognize. Even a small group of local reporters has gathered.
Whatdya know? My death might just be the biggest news story to hit this stupid little town since that year the feral pig got loose in the supermarket. It’s hard to miss the headlines plastered all over the local papers. Heck, even the 5 o’clock news ran a feature about me and how a ‘tragic accident had cut my promising young life all too short’. And people just ate it up.
I guess folks love a good tragedy.
What really bugs me about it is that I can’t even remember what happened. I close my eyes, reach back in my mind, and there’s nothing. Just darknes
s. It feels like having something just on the tip of your tongue but not being able to get it out. Basically, it’s a very special kind of hell. The kind where you get a song stuck in your head but you only know half the words, or you know there is something you are supposed to be doing but your schedule is blank.
I can’t help but wonder what I did to deserve this.
I mean, ok. Maybe I wasn’t a ‘good’ guy. Not like Bruno, or Captain Perfect as I jokingly called him sometimes. I screwed up all the time, with Kaylee, with my friends, with my parents. But I always tried to be kind to animals and little kids. I feel like that should count for something. I mean, so what if I didn’t recycle? So what if I hosted the occasional kegger while my parents were out of town? Who cares if I drove too fast and ate too many bacon double cheeseburgers? So what if I screwed up on the little things? I never killed anyone, made fun of handicapped people, cheated on an exam, or stole anything. And those are the big things, right?
Ok, so maybe this is my punishment. Maybe this is what happens when people live a half-assed life. If so, you’d think there would be a whole lot more of us hanging around. As far as I can tell, it’s only me.
My parents arrive in a black town car. Mom is in the same dress she wore to the Black and While Gala—last year’s fundraiser for the local Civil War Museum and Historical Society—and Dad is in a charcoal grey suit that almost perfectly matches his salt and pepper hair. His expression is stern, but I can’t tell how Mom’s doing, thanks to the black sunglasses she is wearing that are so large they cover half her face. They walk slowly up the stairs, arm in arm. It’s as if they are somehow holding each other upright as they walk into the foyer.
A slender woman in a soft, blue dress greets them at the door, a black folder in her hand. The entrance is decked out in while lilies and greenery. A long line has formed just outside the chapel, where a large book sits on a podium. I breeze past them to get a look at what’s inside.
It’s a memory book. People are signing in. Beside their name, they are leaving little messages like, “Miss you, buddy” and “I will never forget that time you scored that goal in overtime.”
I recognize some of the faces in line. Cassidy and Becker are already here, standing in line, their faces solemn. The twins are here, and Bruno. Even a few of Kaylee’s devoted followers are clustered in a large group near the back.
More people funnel in, my teachers, my lacrosse coach, and even my dentist and his family show up. The more people arrive, the more stifling the room becomes, until I’m hot and I can’t breathe. Can ghosts have panic attacks? I clutch my chest. The pain is deep, like my heart is trying to push its way out of my chest. Even though no one can see me freaking out, I break into a sprint, running from the room and down an empty hallway. Behind me, the organ begins playing and it’s like the whole world is crashing down around me. I can’t think straight. To my right, the door to the coatroom is cracked open so I rush inside, hoping to drown out the sound.
I don’t so much hear the door open as much as I feel it, that nagging sensation of being watched. Turning slowly, I come face to face with the last person on the planet I expect to see.
Zoe Reed.
She’s standing there in torn jeans and a light brown sweater, a grey scarf hanging in loose drapes around her neck. Her brown hair is pulled back in a loose bun with undone strands hanging wildly around her face.
I don’t think we’ve been in a room alone together in maybe four years—not since middle school. We used to be best friends; she was the one person who knew all my secrets. Then, her father died and she sort of pulled away, retreating into this little shell I never could break her out of. Eventually, I quit trying, and we went our separate ways. I’m amazed she even bothered coming to the funeral. The last few times I’d caught her eye in school, she was glaring at me like I was a gallon of month-old milk. Sort of like the way she’s looking at me now.
As if she can see me.
Reaching around, she grabs the door and slams it shut with a loud thud.
“What is your freaking damage, Logan?” she demands.
I’m so stunned that, for a moment, I’m totally speechless. Looking around quickly, I make sure there’s not someone else she’s yelling at.
“Excuse me?” I manage finally.
She squints, glaring at me.
“I’m being punked, aren’t I? This is some stupid reality TV show or something right?”
I can’t believe it. She is talking to me. I have a nearly irresistible urge to throw my arms around her and scream halleluiah. Only her enraged expression keeps me still.
“Does your family know you’re alive? I mean, seriously, if this is some dumb publicity stunt for the reporters out front…” She trails off, making a disgusted noise deep in the back of her throat. “Say something, Logan. Please. Find the magic words to make this whole mess not be the most horrible thing a human being has ever done in their entire life, ever.”
“Zoe?” I ask, unable to keep the pleased grin off my face. She really can see me. So why is she so pissed? Shouldn’t she be happy I’m alive? Or maybe not alive, but you know. Here. “What are you talking about?”
“You are a giant douche hammer, you know that? I mean, what is this? Some idiotic attempt to get extra credit in English class? Tom Sawyer 101? I mean, those people think you’re dead! We all thought…” She trails off again, and I can feel the tension radiating off her like heat waves. This is the Zoe I remember. Once, when we were little, she got so mad that a GI Joe she left in the yard got mowed over that she had a fit and took the whole mower apart piece by piece with a screwdriver. If I can’t calm her down—and fast—she is going to go completely nuclear.
I tilt my head to the side, offering her a relaxed smile. I’d forgotten how pretty she is when she gets really mad. A flush of color rises to her cheeks, and her eyes widen as she presses her lips into a narrow line. I’m still so amazed she’s here that I can’t help but whisper, just to make sure.
“You can see me?”
And that’s when she flies off the handle.
“Okay, that’s it. I’m not falling for this… whatever this is. I’m going to march in there and tell your mother right now.”
Her tone is so high that I can’t help but laugh a little.
“You’re going to go tell my mommy on me? What, are we five again?”
She flips me off and spins on her heel, pulling the door open and charging out of the room. I try to grab her, but my hand goes right through her arm.
“Wait!” I holler down the hall, but she’s speed walking for the chapel. I follow her as she steps into the center of the aisle, catching sight of the coffin for the first time. Her pace slows as she approaches it, her steps faltering as she sees me lying in the casket.
In the back of the room, Bruno gets to his feet, as if he’s going to go after her, but her mother and her friend Carlos both jump up and rush to her side. I step back into the hall, out of her sight. Bruno is watching her with worried eyes. I forgot—he had a thing for her a while back. He’d even asked me for her number once. I’d blown him off then, partly because I didn’t actually have her number anymore, but also a little because she was mine once, and even though that was years ago, I couldn’t quite stomach the idea of sharing her with anyone, even now.
I step behind the door as Carlos and her mom leads Zoe out of the foyer and outside, watching as they gather her and load her into the passenger seat of her mom’s car. When I finally walk out onto the front steps, Zoe glances over Carlos’ shoulder, catching sight of me again. This time she doesn’t look angry, just shocked and confused.
They pull off, and I stuff my hands in my pockets. I decide to give her a couple hours to calm down before I go see her again. I mean, there has to be a reason she can see me. And maybe, she knows what’s going on with me—why I’m stuck here. Maybe she can help.
As I turn to head back inside, all I can think is, Why did it have to be Zoe?
***
I watch as the storm clouds gather in the dim afternoon sky, the air grows thick with the promise of rain, and the first shard of lightning streaks across the sky. The workers hastily operate the wench, lowering my shiny black casket into the hole at my feet. My family has long gone home, all that’s left now are the piles of flowers and the two men in blue jumpsuits. One hops in the bobcat and begins scooping large bucketfuls of dirt to fill it in.
They finish their work quickly and scurry to the shelter of a crude building near the rear of the cemetery. Just as they step inside and close the door a roll of thunder echoes across the sky and the rain lets loose. I don’t feel it, not the drops hitting my skin or the bit of the cold water. It might be because I’m too numb—too overwhelmed for the day—to feel anything. Or it might just be a perk of being dead.
After Zoe had seen me at the wake, I’d been so sure there would be someone else, anyone else, who would have the same ability. I should have known it was too much to hope for.
Zoe and I had been best friends as kids. We’d made mud pies, had secret forts in the woods behind my house, she’d even been my first kiss. As innocent childhood kisses go, it had been pretty memorable. But all that changed after her dad died. I remember knocking on her door every day that summer, only to be sent away by her mother because she didn’t feel like company.
Every. Single. Day.
She ended up homeschooling for a while and by the time she came back, we were in high school. I had new friends and new hobbies. We just didn’t fit in each other’s lives anymore. I got popular, and she got bitchy.
And that was being generous.
For the most part we’d managed to stay clear of each other, until the end of school last year when my best friend Bruno had asked me for her number out of the blue. Even as an unexpected feeling of jealousy and possession had flared up inside me, I’d jokingly slapped him on the shoulder and told him he’d be better off asking out a pit viper.
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