Haunting Zoe
Page 1
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
PO Box 561326
The Colony, TX 75056
https://www.cleanteenpublishing.com
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.