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“This is Mike Andover.” She gestures to the others. “And Chase Putnam, and Simon Parry, and Will Rosenberg.”
They all nod at me like total assholes except for Will Rosenberg, who shakes my hand. He’s the only one who doesn’t seem like a complete douche. He wears his letter jacket loose and with his shoulders hunched like he’s sort of ashamed of it. Or at least ashamed of its present company.
“So, are you coming, or what?”
“I don’t know,” Carmel replies. She sounds a
“We’ll be at the falls around ten,” he says. “Let me know if you need a ride.” When he leaves, Carmel sighs.
“What are they talking about? The falls?” I ask, feigning interest.
“The party is at Kakabeka Falls. Every year it moves around, to keep the cops off. Last year it was at Trowbridge Falls, but everybody freaked out when—” She pauses.
“When what?”
“Nothing. Just a bunch of ghost stories.”
Could I be this lucky? Usually I’m a week in before there’s a convenient segue into haunting talk. It’s not exactly the easiest thing to bring up.
“I love ghost stories. In fact, I’m dying for a good ghost story.” I move to sit down across from her and lean forward on my elbows. “And I do need someone to show me around the Thunder Bay nightlife.”
She looks directly into my eyes. “We can take my car. Where do you live?”
* * *
Someone is following me. The sensation is so acute that I can actually feel my eyes try to slip through my skull and part the hair on the back of my head. I’m too proud to turn around—I’ve been through too much scary shit to be put off by any human attacker. There’s also the slight chance that I’m just being paranoid. But I don’t think so. There’s something back there, and it’s something that’s still breathing, which makes me uneasy. The dead have simple motives: hate, pain, and confusion. They kill you because it’s the only thing they have left to do. The living have needs, and whoever is following me wants something of me or mine. That makes me nervous.
Stubbornly, I stare ahead, taking extra long pauses and being sure to wait for the walk signals at every intersection. In my head I’m thinking that I’m an idiot for putting off buying a new car, and wondering where I could hang out for a few hours to regroup and avoid being followed home. I stop and strip my leather backpack from my shoulder and dig around inside until my hand is clutching the sheath that holds my athame. This is pissing me off.
I’m passing by a cemetery, some sad, Presbyterian thing that isn’t well-kept, the grave markers adorned with lifeless flowers and ribbons torn by the wind and stained dark with mud. Near me, one of the headstones lies on the ground, fallen down dead just like the person buried underneath it. For all its sadness, it’s also quiet, and unchanging, and it calms me a little. There’s a woman standing in the center, an old widow, staring down at her husband’s grave marker. Her wool coat hangs stiff on her shoulders and there’s a thin handkerchief tied beneath her chin. I’m so caught up in whoever was following me that it takes me a minute to realize that she’s wearing a wool coat in August.
There’s a hitch in my throat. She turns her head at the noise and I can see, even from here, that she doesn’t have any eyes. Just a set of gray stones where her eyes used to be, and yet we stare at each other, unblinking. The wrinkles in her cheeks are so deep they could have been drawn in black marker. She must have a story. Some disturbing tale of woe that gave her stones for eyes and brings her back to stare at what I now suspect is her own body. But right now I’m being followed. I don’t have time for this.
I flip open my backpack and pull my knife out by the handle, showing just a flash of the blade. The old woman draws her lips back and opens her teeth in a silent hiss. Then she backs away, sinking slowly into the ground as she does, and the effect is something like watching someone wave from an escalator. I feel no fear, just a bleak embarrassment that it took me so long to notice she was dead. She might have tried to give me a scare had she gotten close enough, but she’s not the kind of ghost that kills. If I had been anyone else, I might not have even noticed her. But I’m tuned in to these things.
“Me too.”
I jump at the voice, right at my shoulder. There’s a kid standing beside me, been standing there for god knows how long. He’s got ragged black hair and black-rimmed glasses, a ski
“Some scary old lady, huh?” he says. “Don’t worry. She’s harmless, here three days a week at least. And I can only read minds when people are thinking about something really hard.” He smiles out of one half of his mouth. “But I get the feeling that you’re always thinking really hard.”
I hear a thump from somewhere nearby and realize that I’ve let go of my athame. The thump that I heard was the sound of it hitting the bottom of my backpack. I know he’s the one who was following me, and it’s a relief to have been right. At the same time, I find the prospect of his being telepathic disorienting.
I’ve known telepaths before. Some of my dad’s friends were telepathic to varying degrees. Dad said it was useful. I think it’s mostly creepy. The first time I met his friend Jackson, who I’m now quite fond of, I lined the inside of my baseball cap with tinfoil. What? I was five. I thought it would work. But I don’t happen to have a baseball cap or any foil handy right now, so I try to think softly … whatever the hell that means.
“Who are you?” I ask. “Why are you following me?”
And then I know. He’s the one who tipped off Daisy. Some telepathic kid who wanted in on some action. How else would he know to follow me? How else would he know who I am? He was waiting. Waiting for me to hit school, like some freaky snake in the grass.
“Wa
“I’ll explain everything when we get there,” he says over his shoulder. “Come on.”
I don’t know why I follow, but I do.
* * *
He drives a Ford Tempo. It’s about six different shades of gray and sounds like a very angry kid pretending to drive a motorboat in the bathtub. The place that he takes me to is a little joint called The Sushi Bowl, which looks like absolute crap from the outside, but inside it’s not too bad. The waitress asks if we’d rather be seated traditional or regular. I glance around and see some low tables with mats and pillows around them.
“Regular,” I say quickly, before Army Surplus Psycho can pipe up. I’ve never eaten anything perched on my knees before, and just now I’d rather not look as awkward as I feel. After I tell the kid that I’ve never eaten sushi, he orders for us, which does nothing to help me shake the feeling of disorientation. It’s like I’m trapped in one of those omniscient dreams where you just watch yourself do stupid shit, yelling at yourself about how stupid it is, and your dream-self just keeps doing what it’s doing anyway.
The kid across the table is smiling like an idiot. “Saw you with Carmel Jones today,” he says. “You don’t waste any time.”
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Just to help.”
“I don’t need any help.”
“You already had it.” He hunkers lower as the food arrives, two plates of circular mystery, one deep fried and the other covered in small orange dots. “Try some,” he says.