Ghosters Page 2

  Some of the tables are full, but there are still plenty of empty seats. Chicken nuggets in hand, I drift through the patio area, hoping some kind strangers will invite me to sit with them. Since I met my three best friends back in kindergarten, I never dealt with stuff like this back at my old school.

  Knowing that finding someone to eat with is just another part of my day-long audition, I mosey past table after table, trying to put out the right vibe. Hopefully it’s halfway between bashful and stuck-up. One table is filled with girls, and their chatter reminds me of my group back home. Heart pounding, I try my best to make eye contact, but they’re in their own world. Talk about self-absorbed. Is that how I acted around new kids?

  At the next table, two out of three people look up. One even smiles. They look nice enough, but the problem is, they’re all boys.No way I’m ready for that.I smile back but keep walking.

  It isn’t long before I circle the entire patio. Nobody else looks up. Nobody calls me over. Now what? I can’t just sit down and say hi.Not up for doing a second lap, I grab the closest empty table and start eating my once warm chicken nuggets.

  Yeah, chicken. You are what you eat, right?

  With nobody to talk to, the nuggets go down fast, and pretty soon I’m gathering up my trash. As I head to the garbage can, it hits me. Oh my gosh! This is Joey’s first day too. Now who’s self-absorbed? I slump back to my table, wondering how he’s doing. Hopefully, his new teacher is as good as the one he had before.

  With nobody to vent my frustrations to, I start fidgeting. There must be something I can do. If it were up to me, I’d trot into the cafeteria kitchen and whip up a batch of chocolate chip cookies. Since I’m sure the cooks would frown on that, I settle on a visit to the library. Maybe I can find something that explains all the weird stuff going on in our house.

  For the tenth time today, I pull out my school map. For the second time today, it’s a blur. I pull off my glasses. Great. Before it was clay from art class. Now it’s chicken grease.

  Feeling like a total dork, I clean my lenses then scan the map for the library. If I’m reading it right, the library is just past the auditorium on the left. I shuffle past a row of orange lockers and some boys putting up Spanish club posters. The air conditioning feels good as I step through the doors.

  “Hi there,” says a chunky grandma type pushing a cart full of books. “Just browsing, or are you researching a particular subject?”

  Researching? Well, maybe not that, but—before I know it, the word pops out. “Ghosts?”

  “A popular subject. You’ll find them in the nonfiction area, section 130.”

  Nonfiction? Really? I take my time and stroll across what I hope won’t become my permanent lunchtime hangout.

  Actually, that wouldn’t be so bad. This library is much nicer than the one at my other school. It’s bigger, newer. Instead of mold and mildew, it smells like cinnamon. There are lots of cute posters on the walls and more than one snuggly looking chair to curl up in with a good paperback. I saunter down the aisle, eyes narrowed on the book spines and their little white labels. Okay, there’s 120 . . . 126 . . . 128.

  Section 130 does not disappoint. There must be at least twenty books on ghosts and tons more on other goofy stuff like the Loch Ness Monster, Bigfoot, even the Chupacabra. To take up time, I decide to read all the titles.

  The Complete Book of Werewolves, stupid. How to Hold a Séance, better. Haunted Government Buildings of Northern California,better yet. Great choices for bedtime reading. Dad will be so thrilled when I wake him up screaming at three o’clock in the morning.

  “That one’s my favorite,” a female voice says behind me.

  I spin around. Holy crabs!

  With her so tall and me so close, I feel like I’m standing next to a redwood tree. I tip my head back and discover a friendly heart-shaped face surrounded by wavy auburn hair. I know her. She’s the tall girl from literature class. The one who said hi to me.

  “I’m sorry. Did I frighten you?” Her accent is cool. British.

  “Maybe a little.” Geez, she’s even taller than Dad. I catch myself staring and look away. “Guess I was really into these book titles.”

  “You’re Theresa Martinez, right? My aunt suggested I speak with you.”

  “What?” I take a step back. “How’d you know my name, and who’s your aunt?”

  A flush creeps across her cheeks. “Sorry, that sounded a bit mysterious, didn’t it?” She hunches down a bit. “I’m Kerry Addison. My aunt is Amelia Lacey, the real estate agent your folks hired to sell your grandmother’s house a few years back. Since we’re both new to Fern Creek, she suggested I look you up. I’d love to chat with you about your house—if you have the time.”

  Okay, I remember Mom and Dad trying to sell the place. But why is this girl so interested in some old—wait . . . didn’t she say something about that one ghost book being her favorite?

  With the librarian already giving us the stink eye for talking so much, we head to the far end of the library to find an empty table. Like me, Kerry’s wearing shorts too. She motions for me to sit and drops into the chair across from me. Immediately, I’m jealous of the long legs stretching out in front of her.

  “So, have you seen any ghosts yet?” she whispers.

  I knew it.“Is that why you came looking for me, because you think my house is haunted?”

  “Partly, but I really am new to the area. Three weeks ago, my family and I were flying across the Atlantic Ocean.”

  Okay, then what makes her think we have ghosts? I raise my chin. “Where do you buy your groceries?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Is it that little market on Peach Street? Because there’s an old white-haired lady working there, and she thinks our house is haunted too.”

  “That’s interesting, but I didn’t hear about it from any old ladies, white-haired or otherwise.”

  “Then who told you about the house?”

  “My aunt. It’s why she couldn’t sell the place. She did things to frighten away the clients.”

  “That’s crazy. Why would your aunt want to frighten away the—?”

  “Not my aunt. The ghost. Nothing terribly bad, just . . . disturbing. Taking things. Closing doors. Once she hid a woman’s purse, and it took most of an hour to find it.”

  “She? Who’s she?” Please don’t say it’s Grandma Carmen. Please don’t say—

  “Your grandmother, of course.”

  Aw, geez! No wonder Mom and Dad quit trying to sell the place. I slump down in my chair and start chewing my lip. But why would Grandma haunt her own house? That’s the kind of stuff you hear about on TV, not real life.

  All I can think to say is,“I haven’t seen any ghosts.”

  “Perhaps not an actual manifestation, but you must have seen or heard something. Maybe an odd thump or a creak in the night?”

  Of course, I think of the powdered sugar. Like one of those popcorn thingies stuck between your teeth that your tongue can’t leave alone, I’ve gone over it in my head a hundred times, and it only happened yesterday.

  She must see it on my face because she pats my arm. “Oh, please tell.”

  Kerry’s pleading eyes remind me of Mittens, our neighbor’s cat back home. Every time Dad barbecued, Mittens would turn up, scamming for a scrap of chicken or steak. A fuzzy little conman, he would rub against my leg and stare up at me until I fed him.

  Like Mittens, it’s hard not to give Kerry what she wants. “Okay, there was one thing, but it’s really no big deal. Yesterday I was getting ready to make some cookies, and I couldn’t find the powdered sugar.” Oh, geez. I clench my jaw. I can’t believe I’m telling her this.

  “A lot like Aunt Amelia’s purse story,” she says, her voice starting to get wheezy. She picks up her backpack and gestures for me to continue.

  Continue? She sounds like the dog that swallowed a whistle in that old cartoon. “You . . . you sure you’re okay?”I wait as she pulls an asthma inhaler from the front
zipper pocket and sucks in a couple of puffs.

  “It’s mostly for dust,” she says, already sounding stronger, “but sometimes I need it when I’m excited. Go on, finish your story.”

  Once Kerry breathes easier, I relax too, and after a bit, I’ve not only told her about the sugar, but also the thing with Joey and the dining room curtains. By the time I’m finished, a big grin stretches across her face.

  She sits up straight. “You know, I chase ghosts.”

  “Really?” It comes out more sarcastic than I like, and I bite my lip when I realize I just sounded like Dad. Who cares if Kerry’s super into ghosts? I watch cooking shows all the time. Does that make me crazy? “How many have you seen?” I ask, hoping I come off less bratty this time.

  “None here in the States, but back in England I saw a shadow figure and I heard quite a few odd noises up in my gran’s attic. Believe it or not, your house is practically new compared to some of the homes back in England. With so many people dying over the years it’s not unusual for the odd one to hang back.”

  Not sure if I agree, I nod anyway. That’s when I notice Kerry has one brown eye and one green Hmm.That’s another thing she has in common with Mittens.

  Kerry smirks. “I see you’ve noticed my eyes.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to stare. Actually, I like them. They’re . . . unique.”

  “That’s okay. I used to hate them until Grandmother Addison let me in on the big secret. Her eyes are mismatched too, and according to her, ‘it facilitates one’s communication with spirits.’”

  Whoa!“That’s a pretty cool skill. Have you ever used it?”

  “I’ve tried a few times, but the ghosts weren’t interested. Takes quite a bit of effort on their part, you know.”

  Makes sense. “That’s what they say on Ghosters too.”

  “Once I perfect it, I plan to use that skill to become the youngest person to ever document a paranormal manifestation. I even have some of the equipment the chaps on TV use.” She reaches into her backpack and pulls out something the size and shape of a TV remote. “This came in the post last week. It’s an EMF meter. That stands for—”

  “Electromagnetic field. The guys on Ghosters use one. It lights up when spirits are around.” Okay, so besides cooking shows, I watch paranormal stuff too. But I never take them seriously. For me, it’s all about getting scared. It’s fun when you’re safe in your own living room.

  As I’m talking, Kerry tips her head to the side and starts to smile.

  “What? Is this some sort of prank on the new kid?”

  “No, no.” She shakes her head and grins even harder. “It’s just that at first I tracked you down because of your house. But I really like you. You seem to know a lot about spirits, plus, you’re brave. Most people would have run off like a frightened squirrel when that sugar box fell off the counter.”

  “Come on. I was totally freaked.”

  “Yes, but you stayed. I think we’d make good partners.”

  “Partners in what? Crime?”

  She waves me off. “Ghost chasing, silly. And we’d start by searching your house together.” Her hand flies to her mouth. “Sorry, was that too forward?”

  Well, kind of. But who cares? Afraid of running off my first possible friend, I say, “No, it sounds fun. Got any more ghost chasing stuff in there?”

  With a devilish grin, she slides her chair as close to mine as possible. “Right now all I have is this, but I ordered an EVP recorder a couple of weeks ago from a brilliant website called Ghoststuff.com. It should arrive any day. I’ve already started saving for a full spectrum video recorder.”

  Yeah, I’ve heard of those. Wish I could remember what they do.

  Kerry leans back, arms crossed. “It may take a year, but when I’m finished, my ghost-chasing kit is going to be just as good as they have on Ghosters, maybe better.”

  That is so cool. “Where do you get the money?”

  “Babysitting.”

  “What? My dad would never leave me alone with my little brother. He says I’m too young.”

  She laughs. “That’s probably because your brother is an angel compared to our Robert. He’s barely four and absolutely horrid. Mum calls their times apart her mental health breaks.” She throws up her hands. “Forget all that. When can we search your house?”

  Yeah, when? Dad thinks anything to do with ghosts is stupid. “Let me talk to my dad tonight. If he’s okay with it, you can come over for dinner tomorrow. We’ll worry about the searching business later.”

  Satisfied, Kerry smiles back like a kid who just heard she’s going to Disneyland.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE SCHOOL IS only two blocks from our house, so I walk home after my last class. Late September, the sun is already low and the shadow of my grandparents’ huge Victorian looms over everything, including me.

  I wonder what Mom would think if she knew we’d moved in here. It’s no wonder Kerry wants to explore it. The inside might look okay, but outside it’s a place you’d only enter on a dare.

  Chipped and peeling paint, cracked windows. The only sign of life is a hose snaking out across the balding brown yard and the sprinkler swinging slowly back and forth, Dad’s shot at getting the grass to grow back. As I crunch my way down the gravel driveway, something catches my eye at the far end of the house. I head over.

  Back before everything fell apart, I expected to find Dad parked in front of his computer when I got home from school. As a writer, it was normal for him to spend most of his day there, working on his latest book. But that’s all ancient history. Since then, the only place my father spends his afternoons is on the sofa, so it’s a big surprise when I find him up on a ladder, hacking away at the honeysuckle vines that have taken over half of the front porch.

  I step across what passes for our front lawn and drop my backpack beside me. “Nice work, but it’s going to take a lot more than a little pruning to get this place right.”

  He keeps cutting. “Well, you’ve got to prune before you can paint. I told you nobody’s lived here for seven years. What did you expect?”

  “I never expected this. Look at those broken shutters—and the yard. Half the stuff is dead and the other half . . .” The Dad-annoying words fly out before I can stop them. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I should be happy he’s doing something besides sleeping.

  Finished with cutting the low stuff, he moves up a step. The ladder wobbles with every chop, cut, and snip.

  “Joey’s first day at school didn’t go well,” he says between hacks. “You should talk to him.”

  I was afraid that would happen.I grab hold of the ladder and try to steady it for him. “Okay, but don’t you want to know how my first day went?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He pauses in the chopping and looks down at me. “Sorry. How’d it go?”

  “Pretty good, actually.” Anxious to tell him about Kerry, I rush through my list of classes and get down to the good stuff. “Her name is Kerry. She’s British.”

  “¿Inglesa?” He hacks through an ivy branch, and it lands on my shoe.

  “Yeah, her aunt was our real estate agent. Andrea . . . Angela . . .”

  “Amelia Lacey?”

  “Yeah, that’s her.”

  “I remember her. When she couldn’t sell the house she blamed it on ghosts.” He shakes his head. “What a whack job.”

  Get it all out. “That’s funny, because Kerry thinks the house is haunted too.”

  “Oh, really?” He steps off the ladder and moves it a few feet over. “Must run in the family. Maybe they’re related to that woman in the grocery store too.”

  “I really doubt that. But she is anxious to see inside the house.” Before he can climb back up the ladder, I grab his arm. “Is it okay if I invite her over for dinner?”

  “If she’s anything like her aunt, she probably expects to find ghosts roaming the hallways.”

  I smile. “Yeah, probably, but can she come? I was thinking maybe tomorrow.” Please, please, please.


  “I suppose.” The way my dad is staring at the place you’d think it was a Beverly Hills mansion. “You know, back when your grandparents lived here, this was the nicest house on the block. The paint was fresh, the yards were always manicured, front and back . . .” His eyes cloud over as if remembering something unpleasant. “If I could just get that book finished, then we wouldn’t have to worry about money, and—”

  Arg! That stupid writer’s block.I fill my cheeks with air, blow it out.“You will, Dad. Just . . . give it time.”

  “Time, right.” Frowning, he strides across the yard toward the big wheeled garbage tote which he rolls up alongside the pile of clippings.

  Even though I can’t tell whether he likes me helping or not, I spend the next few minutes gathering up what he’s chopping down. The house really does need work, but instead of more idiotic complaining, I try a more positive approach. “It would be cheaper if we fix some of the problems ourselves. Painting is easy, and we could learn how to replace the cracked windows by watching do-it-yourself videos on YouTube. In fact . . .” Up in one of the third floor windows, a curtain flutters. “Is that Joey?”

  Dad looks at me sideways. “Don’t tell me you’re seeing ghosts now.”

  I point up toward the third floor. “No, really. There, in that tower thingy. The curtain moved like somebody was pulling it back to look out.” Somebody like Grandma Carmen . . . ?

  Dad smirks and follows my finger with his gaze. “Like you said, Theresa, the window’s cracked. It’s just the breeze getting through . . . a draft.”

  I toss my arms up in frustration. “But I saw something.”

  He turns back to his bushes, and I scowl at the back of his head. OMG, that man is so closed-minded.

  Joey must have heard my voice, because he runs around the side of the house and stands next to Dad, rake balanced on his shoulder. Joey’s more than a foot shorter than Dad, so they’re a bizarre set of twins: same ruler-straight dark hair, same big brown eyes, only one tall and buff, the other small and bony. Nothing like me.