Chapter One
Most people don't like me when they meet me. Maybe it's an aura about me, something that says, "watch out, she's really weird." Whatever it is, it can cross state lines because I've brought it with me from Arizona to California. I hadn't seen my Aunt in about ten years, though she'd diligently sent me birthday cards every year saying "love you" or "can't wait till your Dad brings you out here" but the truth is, when we met face to face for the first time since I was seven she grimaced. Can you believe that? And it's not because I'm some awkward teenager, all elbows and knees, but she could see there's something fundamentally wrong with me. I wonder what my Dad's told her. Obviously not the whole truth since she was willing to let me move in with her. Who wants some girl that can see ghosts living in her house?
But I think on some basic, primal level people know that about me and that's why they cringe. I get it more often than not. Real confidence booster. I think if I was born a thousand years ago I would be a revered village shaman, but now the best I could hope for is my own television show and that's just not me. So, I've learned to just keep my ability a secret-for better or worse.
Which brings me to California. Oakland, to be exact. My aunt owns a nice house up a long, windy road. All I'd ever heard about Oakland before moving out here was about gangs, violence, etcetera, but my Aunt's well off so she doesn't live near what I'd consider Oakland proper. Actually, I wasn't expecting Oakland to be beautiful at all but it really is. My Aunt practically lives in a forest. There are trees everywhere, dappled in the bright sunlight, and birds call to each other all day while turkeys and deer wonder in and out of her backyard. She lives halfway up a mountain and if you stop to take in the view you can see the whole city laid out below you, with San Francisco in the distance.
Those are the only upsides to being here. I start my new private Catholic school tomorrow, which is going to be a nightmare. I didn't really leave any friends behind at my old school, though I lived in a small town and had basically grown up with every kid my age. I've been an outcast since kindergarten, after I screamed my head off during naptime about the man in the corner who had shot himself. That earned me the very clever nickname of "Bonkers Bella". Thankfully no one bullied me and I could sit in the back of my classes and read, sit alone at lunch and read, and walk home with my nose stuck in a book, all without being bothered. I'm worried that these new kids will take their initial reaction to me-the cringing, remember-and turn that revulsion into bullying. Since I can't change who I am, I'll just have to deal with it.
I sigh and roll over in my bed for the hundredth time, unable to stop thinking about the turn my life has taken. Catholic school; God, kill me now. Tomorrow is going to be the worst. How can I fall asleep when that will just hasten its arrival? It doesn't help that I'm lonely. Painfully, lonely. I've been here for two days and there's been no one to talk to but my Aunt and Uncle. No offense, but they're ancient and when they aren't fighting they're trying to entice me to marvel at their miniature train collection. Seriously. So I've been pretty reclusive. I miss the friends I left behind.
Well, my only hope is to make more, right? I throw back the heavy down comforter and jump out of bed. My room is illuminated in the light of the full moon that shines through my window. I turn on my bedside lamp; a glass monstrosity filled with sand and seashells. My Aunt couldn't have decorated an uglier room if she'd tried. I'll break the news that I'm not a fan of Normal Rockwell or Thomas Kinkaid to her soon. I walk to the giant oak armoire on the other side of the room and begin pulling black clothes out. My trusty black leggings, long sleeved shirt, puffy vest and sneakers are my typical scouting outfit, along with a ponytail. I almost look like a cat burglar, except most pretty seventeen-year-old girls just shoplift clothes instead of breaking into houses.
My Aunt's house has wall-to-wall thick, white carpeting. Perfect for muffling footsteps. Slipping down the hall, past the outdated white and pink furniture in the living room, and to the front door is a breeze. They don't have a security system, thank god, so all I have to do is unlock the dead bolt and I'm free. I quietly slip through the door. The air is fresh and crisp, the moon bright, and the crickets loud. It's perfect. I jog up the slanted street, eager to reach my destination. Earlier I took a walk around the neighborhood, just to kill time and explore, when I saw a house unlike any other in the neighborhood.
Most of the homes are upper middle class, not the cookie cutter kind, and are in pretty good shape. That's why the abandoned house was completely out of place. It's up a hill, far back from the street so that it's kind of hidden, and its small compared to the rest of the houses around here. It's just a normal, modern house with a deck out front and French doors; though the doors are hanging off their hinges. It also has a creepy above ground basement that is pitch black even during the day, which I peaked into. I called out, "Is anybody home?" but I didn't get any response. But I have a feeling someone was just being shy. After being able to see ghosts, spirits, or whatever you call them my whole life, I've become pretty good at finding them. A little too good: hence my banishment to California.
I keep up my pace of a slow jog as I wind through the convoluted streets. The air is crisp and cold and filled with the sounds of crickets. It's a really beautiful night. I wish it wouldn't lead to a morning. No matter, the house is ahead, casting a soft orange glow onto the leaf-covered dirt surrounding it. My stomach does a little flip. There definitely weren't any lights in there when I checked the place out, so it's either some ghostly apparition or teenagers. Man, I really hope it is ghosts.
I walk up the dilapidated wooden steps to the home, trying to make as little noise as possible, because whether you're alive or dead, nobody likes being snuck up on. Not that all ghosts pay attention to me when I'm right next to them anyway. They're complicated and unique, just like people. Instead of walking up to the entrance and exposing myself in front of the glass French doors, I hop off the stares to go around back. The house is slightly built into the hill so I can scramble up the dirt up to the second floor where I know the living room to be. I kneel into the soft light below a window and slowly inch my head up to see into the house. Happiness rushes over me as I instantly realizes there aren't any teenagers inside tonight.
This morning the house had been empty, except for beer cans and dirt, with multicolored graffiti covering the once white walls. The ceiling had been a little low and the living room small, giving it a cramped, claustrophobia inducing quality. Now I stared at a completely different house. Gleaming wooden bookshelves overflowed with hard covered books in various colors and sizes. A brass telescope stood by the far window, pointing up into the sky. An antique globe stood next to a heavy, dark desk. Several plush leather chairs had been pushed towards the walls to clear the middle of the room. A large oriental rug had been rolled up towards my window, I could just see the dark blue and red design in the soft light from the stained glass lamps that dotted the room. It was old, decidedly male, and magnificent.
I've found that most ghosts just spend their time stuck in a bad mood, lamenting their former lives. They're too caught up in feeling sorry for themselves to see what power they have. Obviously the old man standing in the middle of the room doesn't. This has to be his library. He has white hair that has mostly fled form his head to take up residence in his bushy eyebrows and mustache. He's wearing a light brown three-piece suit, the vest stretched snuggly over his protruding belly, complete with starched white shirt and knotted tie. He even has a gold chain that undoubtedly leads to a pocket watch. He looks to be a proper gentleman, except for the bloody hole in his chest that is revealed every time his jacket moves out of the way. Needless to say, I can't wait to go talk to him.
Standing before him is a pretty woman who looks to be in her mid twenties. She's wearing a black party dress that, judging by her blonde bouffant up-do and cat eye makeup, is straight out of the 1960s. Her only jewelry is a double strand of white pearls that shine when they catch the light. She's absolutely beautiful, though the effect is kind of ruined by the red lines flowing down her arm where she followed the veins with a razor.
These two are very intriguing. I've never seen two ghosts interact with each other. Like I said, they're usually too busy feeling sorry for themselves and want to be left alone. Just like in the movies, they'll try and scare me away so that they can just go on feeling sorry for themselves. I don't put up with that. Looks like these two are a bit more evolved, like they're tying to have some kind of life after death.
They seem to be arguing. The woman gestures angrily towards the front of the house. The old man laughs and tweaks his mustache, jostling his coat and revealing the gaping hole in his chest. She stomps over to a table between them and picks up a book laying open; she shoves it into his chest and he reaches up to catch it. I'm starting to have doubts about interrupting them, but I can't stop watching them! The woman slips a tube from a pocket and begins to write on the exposed floorboards in a blood red while periodically glancing up at the old man and yelling at him. I can't hear her, but the set of her mouth and her facial expression tells me he's getting an earful. The old man seems to capitulate and start reading aloud from his book. The woman stands silently, her arms crossed. A cold wind blows past me, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The man stops reading and adjusts his glasses as he peers around the room; the woman just scowls and hangs her head. Then, something attacks me.
I hear the thud the axe makes when it slices into the windowsill beside my face. Disbelievingly, I turn to see the thick blade connected to the wooden handle sticking out of the house. It seems to take forever, like my heart can't pump blood to my muscles fast enough, but I turn my head to the man behind me, just past the light coming from the window. All I see clearly are his large, heavy boots and then my body kicks into life and I start running. It isn't easy on the loosely packed topsoil scattered with leaves. My shoes skid out from under me and I have to contort myself to avoid falling but I take off around the house as fast as I can. I hear the man swear and come after me. I look back and see him lurch as he pulls out the axe. He has long hair and a disheveled beard with several wooden shafts sticking out of his chest. They must be arrows, I realize with a start. He's dead, so why is he attacking me?
I round the house, heading towards the stairs, still looking over my shoulder. The tall trees around the lot blot out the moonlight, turning the man into a dark shadow that lumbers after me. Fear takes over my brain and I can't stop looking over my shoulder as I try to run for the stairs. I end up sliding more than running.
My feet connect with wood and relief spreads through me. The stairs feel solid and safe, like a lifeline. In an instant my brain assesses the situation: run down the dark street towards home, or take my chances with the ghosts inside the house. I glance up towards the wooden deck and the French doors. A man stands on the steps, looking over his shoulder at me. He has brown pants, a crisp white shirt, and suspenders. He stands frozen, ready to take his next step towards the house. I can't tell if he's alive or dead, but it doesn't matter. He looks shocked, like he has a seen a ghost.
"Go, go, go!" I say frantically, running the few steps towards him.
"Wha-"
"Go!" I hook my around his as I pass him, attempting to drag him up stairs.
He doesn't budge but peers into the darkness behind us, searching. The mountain man comes into view; his left leg dragging like it's deformed. His eyes are red and blood seeps from his arrow wounds.
"Oh." The man beside me says. He unhooks his arm and places his hand on the small of my back. "Carry on." I hurry into the home, rushing to the back of the library, headless of the blank stares from the old man and the blonde bombshell.
Like a coward I crouch down behind one of the dark leather chairs and peak towards the entrance. The man in suspenders walks into the room, apparently taking his sweet time escaping from the axe wielding mad man. He's even stupid enough to leave the door open!
He sees the old man and the woman and smiles, spreading his arms wide in a gesture that is at once a greeting and a joke.
"Dear, Doctor, quiet night in?"
The mountain man's ghost trudges in after him, raising his axe as if to strike. The man in suspenders looks over his shoulder and dodges the upraised axe as it sings down.
"Whoa, there."
The mad man stumbles forward, propelled by the momentum from his attack. His footsteps carry him over the red writing on the floorboards. He freezes, caught mid-stumble. The woman sighs, the old man smiles, and the suspender man stares at me. Who are these people?
"I knew we didn't need Edward." The woman says snidely, as if the frozen mad man already bores her.
"Hey-" suspenders man starts.
"Technically," the old man says, "we were successful, though the summoning would have been stronger with a trio and quite possibly more accurate. Where did you discover him, Edward?"
He stares at me as he answers. "Outside the house, trying to kill her."
"Ah, yes." The old man mumbles, fingering his mustache as he turns towards me. "And who do we owe this pleasure to?"
"Uh…" I say, shakily standing up from my crouch.
"He's asking for your name." The woman drawls.
"Bella." I say, trying not to scowl. First impressions are important, even with ghosts.
"Bella," she repeats blankly, like a challenge. I nod.
"Well Isabella," she says turning back towards the mad man, "we have important business to address before I deal with you."
Who does this woman think she is?
"I'll take care of her," suspenders man says. The woman raises an eyebrow and looks between the two of us. I get the sense that something is very wrong here.
"Actually," I pipe up. "I can see myself out. In fact, I'm sleepwalking. Didn't see a thing! So, I'll just –uh, skirt around this vase thing-"
"Canopic jar."
I gingerly move towards the French doors and try to appear non-threatening.
"Yes, of course! I have one at home. Not as shiny as this, though. I just keep pencils in it. Well, this has been a fabulous dream. Nice to meet you all, but-"
The suspenders man steps in front of me, blocking the exit.
"I know you."
My heart stops and then beats madly inside my chest.
"I know you." He repeats.
"Well, as a figment of my unconscious-"
"This isn't a dream, Bella. Haven't you seen ghosts before?"
Yes, but never like you three, I want to say. They are so unlike any ghosts I've ever met that I'm almost beginning to convince myself this is a dream. I should be asleep in my bed right now, anyway. Maybe I was just considering sneaking out but then fell asleep and dreamed this…
"Yes," I sigh. "My whole life."
"That settles it. We'll be going."
The woman groans in frustration and actually stomps one high-heeled foot on the floorboards. "But you just got here! Do we have to do everything by ourselves? What about Alexander the Axe man, hm? Should we just question him on our own?"
"Well Dear, you are the expert with men," he says as he slides his hand around my upper arm. She glares at us furiously and it strikes me that these two must be a couple. Why else would he call her Dear? It also sounds like she cheated on him. Yikes. People talk about great love lasting into the afterlife, but I've never thought that crappy couples had a chance at that too.
He marches me out onto the deck and we stand on the fringe of the orange light spilling from the house. He closes the door and moves partly into the dark at me side, throwing half of his face into shadow as we look at each other. He opens his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it.
" Let's get one thing straight-," I say, and he stares down at me with frozen, parted lips. "You don't know anything about me. Whatever you think you know about me because I'm young or a girl you can just shove up your dead butt. And you better not treat me like I'm from your time, because women have the right to vote now and I'm not going to take any disrespect from you."
His features rearrange themselves from shock into appraising admiration. He nods his head in approval.
"Fair enough. Couple points, though. One, woman could vote when I was alive. Two, I'll thank you to stay away from my butt. And three, I meant that I've seen you before tonight. You look just like someone I used to know; I even thought you were she for one terrible moment. Why is that, Bella?"
"Uh…" I say as I eye him warily. "How could I know?"
He looks at me sadly, with crossed arms and one hand wrapped thoughtfully around his jaw. Caught between the light and the shadows, it's hard to read the expression on his face.
"Tell me, do you know Beatrice Michaels?"
"No. Oh-hold on…" my chest feels like it constricts and expands all at once. "Did you know my Grandmother?"
His eyes narrow as his brows furrow. Ghosts are like humans without the distractions of life to keep their emotions in check. I've had more than one angry ghost try to attack me. With that in mind, I take a step back. When he speaks, though, his voice sounds completely emotionless.
"I loved her."