Pen Pal(45)

She trails off and stares at me, unblinking.

I say, “That pause has got to be the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m simply suggesting that ghosts, like people, have moods. I’d be willing to bet you haven’t seen the worst of it yet.”

I press my cold fingertips to my closed eyelids and heave a sigh. “Fine. Let’s assume for argument’s sake that there is a ghost or ghosts living in this house. What other things should I be on the lookout for?”

Fiona cheerfully ticks off a list. “Orbs of light. Whispering voices. Strange dreams. Shadowy forms glimpsed in your peripheral vision or unnatural shadows where there shouldn’t be any. Misplaced items. The radio or television changing stations on their own. Feeling a touch—”

“A touch?” I interrupt, horrified. “A ghost could touch me? Gross!”

She purses her lips, gazing at me as if I’ve gravely disappointed her.

“I said feeling a touch. It’s a sensation. If you recall, dear, ghosts don’t have bodies. So naturally it would follow that they don’t have hands. Please pay attention.”

I swear, I’m going to give this woman such a smack.

But I get distracted from that thought when she says, “Another thing that could happen is that you begin to be physically influenced by the presence of the spirit. So you might begin to experience headaches or lapses in memory, things like that.”

Headaches? Lapses in memory?

I stare at Fiona with my mouth hanging open.

Perplexed by my expression, she says, “What?”

When I find my voice again, I say weakly, “I think I just had a revelation.”

Eyes bright, she leans eagerly over the table. “And?”

“There’s no and. Just…there was this little boy.”

She blinks in confusion. “Boy? What boy?”

“I saw him through my office window playing out on the back lawn, but when I went outside to find him, he was gone. And the security feed was all static when I reviewed it, as if it had been erased. Or hadn’t recorded at all.” My throat arid as a desert, I swallow. “Because he wasn’t really there.”

Fiona is wearing such an odd expression, it makes me nervous.

She asks, “What did this little boy look like?”

“Blond. Maybe five years old. He was wearing a red rain slicker and little yellow boots. And he seemed happy, running around and laughing.” I shake my head in disbelief. “I thought he got lost and wandered into my backyard.”

Fiona looks down at the table. She spreads her hands flat over the top. She appears to be calculating something.

“What’s wrong?”

After a beat, she puts on a bright smile. “It’s only that I’ve never heard of a happy ghost. Typically, spirits who linger on this plane are here because of a tragedy they haven’t gotten over. They’re usually sad or angry.”

“Oh.” My laugh borders on hysterical. “Well, the other guy definitely fits the angry slot.”

“What other guy?”

“I saw this man spying on me from behind a tree in the backyard. He looked really pissed off. He bared his teeth at me and everything. But he didn’t leave any footprints in the mud, and now I’m thinking the only people who don’t leave footprints in mud are people who don’t have bodies.”

I cannot fucking believe I just said that.

Blinking like an owl, Fiona repeats slowly, “Bared his teeth.”

“Yeah. He freaked me out. Though I couldn’t really see much of his face, just that weird grimace. He was tall and gaunt and had a trench coat and a hat on, pulled low over his eyes.”

I gasp, sitting up straighter in my chair. “Oh, God! Do you think he might have hurt the little boy? Like maybe that’s why they’re here, because they’re linked somehow?”

A strange expression crosses Fiona’s face. After a moment, she nods. “Perhaps. Maybe they lived in this house long ago. Maybe they were father and son. Or maybe they’re from two completely different time periods and something tragic happened to each one of them. The possibilities are endless. Sometimes ghosts are drawn to one another and wind up haunting the same area, even though they didn’t know each other in life.”

We stare at each other. Finally, I say, “Not that I believe in ghosts.”

“Of course not.”

“Right. So when can your sister come and do the séance?”

“I’ll ask her and find out.”

“Great.”

We stare at each other again. Then she says urgently, “The most important thing, Kayla, is for you to remember what I said about not telling a ghost it’s dead. If you see these spirits again before we can arrange a séance and hopefully assist them to the Other Side, just allow them to do whatever they’re doing undisturbed. Don’t try to interact. And especially don’t do anything to anger them.”

Feeling chilled all over again, I ask, “Why is that so important?”

“Because a spirit lives in a world of its own making. It only sees what it wants to see. It’s blind to reality. Wandering spirits must be ready to accept that they no longer inhabit the world of the living. They must be gently coaxed to that understanding and accept it through their own free will, or they might retreat further into their fantasy world, dooming themselves to be locked in the darkness for eternity, beyond all hope of reaching the Other Side and thus achieving peace.”