Awakening (Lily Dale #1)(17)

Now, peering up into the gathering dusk, she can’t quite make out from this angle what the lettering says, other than her grandmother’s name.

Hmm. Calla goes down the steps to get a better view and looks again at the sign. There. Now she can see the whole thing:

ODELIA LAUDER, REGISTERED MEDIUM

It’s all Calla can do to drag herself back into her grandmother’s house after reading that crazy sign out front.

Registered medium? Classic whack job is more like it.

Mom was right about her mother. Odelia is off her rocker—and now Calla’s stuck here with a kook who puts raisins in meatballs and advertises herself as some kind of fortune-teller. Or whatever.

Back in the lamplit living room, Calla paces past the bookshelves and back again, their contents forgotten. She longs to keep on walking, right out the door, but she can’t do that.

Where would she go? She’s stuck in the middle of nowhere. It’s not like she can hail a cab or take a bus or even call someone to come pick her up. Lisa is a thousand miles away. And now her father’s on the opposite side of the country.

In fact, he should be calling any minute now. He promised he would when he lands safely in California. He’s going to want to know how everything is here.

What will she tell him?

That Odelia is a con-artist freak and lives in a haunted house?

What, exactly, does a so-called medium do, anyway? Or claim to do?

Calla’s never come across one before, and Mom would never let her watch any of those supernatural television shows or movies about ghosts and hauntings. She said they were ludicrous. And once, when Calla stupidly told her there was going to be a Ouija-board seance at Tiffany Foxwood’s slumber party, Mom made her stay home. Lisa’s mother did the same, which wasn’t surprising because she’s so religious. Calla was surprised Mom wouldn’t budge, though.

“If Ouija boards are so stupid and fake, why do you even care?” she asked her mother.

“Because I don’t want you to get caught up in ridiculous things like that. You have better things to do with your time and your brain.”

“Last week you let me go to Amber Cunningham’s nail-painting party.That’s just as ridiculous and you had no problem with it.”

“Fine.Then the next time you’re invited to a nail-painting party, you’re not going.”

Talk about an unsatisfactory answer. Sometimes, Calla couldn’t figure out her mother.

But I’d give anything for another chance at it, she thinks glumly, then drags her thoughts back to the present before the grief can kick in again.

Calla’s pretty sure a medium supposedly has supernatural powers; some kind of paranormal connection to the spirit world. And if Calla had ever stopped to think about what kind of person might make such a claim, Odelia would probably have popped into her head.

Look at her, with those flowing clothes, that wild red hair, and all that jangling jewelry. She looks like some kind of gypsy. Is it so surprising that she’d act the part as well?

Okay, you are so not being fair, Calla tells herself guiltily. You can’t decide a person is a freak—or a con artist—just because of how they look.

All right, then . . . to give Odelia the benefit of the doubt, Calla wonders if she might actually be able to talk to the dead. Is that really so far-fetched?

After all, weren’t you just thinking you had seen a ghost right here in this house?

A chill slips down Calla’s spine, even as she reminds herself that her mother wouldn’t buy into this ridiculousness—any of it—for a second. Mom had too much common sense. If she were here right now, she’d be telling Calla to use her head and weigh the evidence.

Since there isn’t any evidence that can’t be explained away as a figment of one’s imagination . . .

That’s probably all any of this is. Then again . . .

Wait a minute.

Calla stops pacing, struck by the coincidence. Can there possibly be a connection between the ghost Calla saw—no, the ghost you thought you saw—upstairs and her grandmother’s claim to be a medium?

Oh, God.What if she really is a medium?

In the grand scheme of things, isn’t it pretty unlikely that Calla, who has never seen—or thought she’s seen—a ghost in her life, would suddenly bump into one here, now, today?

It’s not as if she can blame it on the power of suggestion. Until a few minutes ago, she had no idea her grandmother even claimed to be a medium.

Whoa. She paces more quickly, fists clenching and unclenching at her sides.

Okay, so then . . . maybe Odelia is a medium. And maybe this place is crawling with ghosts.

Yeah. Good going. Nothing like completely creeping yourself out.

What if there are dead people hanging around her grandmother’s house, waiting for their chance to try to make contact with her?

Why would I be able to see them, though? I’m not a medium. Unless . . .

A thought barges into Calla’s consciousness and refuses to budge. A thought so preposterous that it steals away her breath:

What if that sort of thing—talking to ghosts—runs in families? Like height or eye color? What if Odelia really is a medium . . . and so am I?





FIVE

“There you are!”

Calla hastily wipes the tears from her eyes, then looks up to see her grandmother, wearing a pink towel turban and a fuzzy orange robe, peeking through the bedroom door. She left it slightly ajar—not because she welcomes Odelia’s company, but because she still can’t shake the memory of the figure she glimpsed here earlier.