The Tidings - [Ghost Huntress 0.5 - A Christmas Novella] (3 page)

Celia continues. “Dad’s also inviting the folks from the shelter to come. You know, so they have more than just a soup-kitchen type holiday.” Her face falls. “There are so many more homeless people in Radisson than before. I thought with the new distribution center opening soon and jobs coming available, people would be doing better. So, we’re just trying to help out.”

“That’s nice of you.” And it is. But I just can’t feel charitable right now when my own heart feels hollow and abandoned. “You have to be careful, though, about who you just let wander around your house, Cel. You guys have, like, tons of art and silverware that someone could just walk away with.”

She giggles at me. “It’s Christmas, Kendall. My dad has more than he could ever want or need. He wants to share.”

I stab the needle in and out of the hem, nearly finished. Kaitlin better appreciate this, but she probably won’t… as usual.

“Come on, Kendall, say you’ll come. What else do you have to do?” Celia asks.

My mouth falls open and I feel my eyes grow wide in shock and awe.

“God, Kendall,” she stumbles out. “I didn’t mean that. I’m a total idiot. I meant that Patrick won’t be back yet and it’ll be good to have your company. Everyone’s going to be there: Taylor, Becca, Shelby-Nicole, Jason… it wouldn’t be the same without you.”

I smile weakly at her as I set Kaitlin’s gown on the table. “You’re hopeless,” I say.

She lifts a brow at me. “How so?”

“You are so in love with Jason Tillson.”

Red stains her cheeks, then she confesses, “Totally. Just like you’re in love with Patrick Lynn.”

I’ll give her that one.

“Say you’ll come,” she prods.

“I’ll try. Okay? We’ll see if my mood has improved by then.”

She stands and laughs at me. “I’m sure there’s a pill your mom, the nurse, can give you for your Bah Humbuggery.”

“Whatev….”

As Celia exits out the back, the front door of the house bursts open and a melee of feet on the hardwood floor sounds out. My ears are treated to the near-bleeding sensation of the incessant chatter and squealing of fifteen-year-old girls. They pound their way through the dining room and into the kitchen: six sweaty soccer players covered in mud and dirt, now delving through our refrigerator for water and energy drinks.

“Kaitlin!” I shout. “Mom’s told you not to track through the house after a soccer game.”

“But we won, Kendall! You don’t understand,” she squeals. “Like, this was
the
game. Brittney scored the last goal and then I flew in front of our goal to save the game.” Underneath the caked-on red Georgia mud on my sister’s face, I can make out her triumphant grin.

She moves as if to hug me, but then pulls back.

“That’s awesome,” I say, still correcting her. “You still don’t need to be in the house like that.”

She lowers her eyes. “You’re right. Sorry. Hey, you want to see the trophy?”

I wave off her accomplishment. “Not right now. I’m busy fixing your dress.”

I don’t need my psychic abilities to read the disappointment on her face. Is she actually reaching out to me? I’m not sure since it’s been so long.

We both begin to speak. My words are heard first. “Why don’t you guys go out on the deck and I’ll bring the water and stuff out.”

A weak smile crosses her face. “Thanks, Kendall.” She turns to herd her crew toward the screened-in porch out back.

Gathering an armload of bottled water and a pack of Double Stuff Oreos, I swing through the door and place the refreshments on the table for Kaitlin and her friends. I know I should be all, like, big sister proud of the little brat and her accomplishment, but it only adds to how everything is all about her these days.

Kaitlin.

The
real
Moorehead daughter.

Not the adopted one.

Not like anyone necessarily treats me differently. I just
feel
different of late.

“Oh crap! I need to get going,” Kaitlin’s friend, Brittney says with a pout on her face.

“Why?” Kaitlin asks.

Brittney tosses a long, white box that she’s been holding up on the table. “I’m supposed to go with my mom and these other ladies to put flowers on the graves at the cemetery for the Daughters of the American Revolution.”

“You can’t leave. We’re celebrating!” Kaitlin pushes the container toward me. “Kendall can do it.”

I pop to attention. “Excuse me?”

“Sure,” my sister says. “You’re all into ghosts and spirits and stuff. Why don’t you go do the flowers for Brittney so she can stay here with us?”

“Please, Kendall,” Brittney whines, followed by a course of other pleas from the girls.

Seriously? First, I’m Kaitlin’s seamstress. Now I’m her florist? I stop my annoyance for a minute and think this through. I need to be the bigger person, the big sis, and help out. Kaitlin’s got her posse celebrating with her, so I should give them space and get out of the house.

“Sure, I’ll do it.”

“Thanks, Kendall! You’re the best,” Kaitlin says. Then, she surprises the hell out of me by giving me a tight hug. “Really. Thanks.”

“Ummm… okay.”

Is my sister actually starting to grow up? Wow. As I’m about to hug her back, she pulls away and returns to her friends. I smile inwardly at the rare sisterly moment that’s literally as long as a finger snap.

Bundling back up in my coat, I thread my hounds tooth scarf around my neck. Since the sun is setting, the chill in the air is starting to nip a little harder. Not like Chicago lake effect cold, but I’ll take this.

It takes five minutes for me to walk the small Radisson back streets to the city cemetery, a place I’ve been to many times in my ghost hunting and in my soul searching. This time, I hope to encounter nothing more than the other ladies of the DAR.

A woman with long, blond hair waves to me. “Kendall, it’s so good to see you, hon.” It’s Mayor Donn Shy. She’s a frequent tarot customer. My friends and I helped clear her house of a belligerent ghost.

“Hey, there,” I say, returning the greeting. “I’m filling in for Brittney who’s over at my house celebrating a major soccer win.”

The mayor’s mouth stretches open. “Well, that’s certainly a lot more interesting than honoring the dead.” She laughs and I join in, for no reason.

“We’ve covered the back lot,” she tells me. “If you can take that section over there, that would be wonderful. Plenty of graves from the American Revolution all the way up to Vietnam. Just place one of the poppies on the headstone, dear.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say with a nod.

Leaving the white box on a nearby bench, I gather the ruby-red poppies into my hand and start walking the line of graves. An Army sergeant to my left. A Navy seal to the right. An unknown Civil War solider to the left. A WWII nurse on the right. Each receives a flower of memory, and I inwardly thank each of them for their service to our country and our freedom.

As I walk amongst the burial plots, I think of all the souls and spirits I’ve encountered during my psychic awakening. How many I’ve helped crossover into the light, and others who’ve fought me tooth and nail. A certain melancholy covers me as I remember a simpler time when all I worried about at Christmas was if I’d fall asleep early enough so that Santa would deliver the presents on time. Or thoughts of galoshes-ing up and joining the other neighborhood kids as we built snowmen and had fights from our snow forts on each side of the street of our Chicago neighborhood.

Now, I’m so wrapped up with everyone else’s to-dos, that I’ve pretty much forgotten who I am and what I want. I place a poppy on the tombstone of a Private B. D. Alanis and wonder if his life was spent serving others constantly, or if he ever had a chance to do the things
he
wanted to do.

On his headstone sits a marble angel, bent on her knees and her hands folded together in prayer. Peaceful. Serene. And….

Alive?

I jump back—you’d think I’d be used to ghosts and spirits by now—as the face of the angel springs to life, her features stretching and yawning as the essence within awakens. Not just awakens, but transforms into a face. One I hadn’t thought of since her funeral last year. I rub my eyes at the apparition in the marble before me. It can’t be.

Then again, it can. So many strange things have happened to me since moving to Radisson, Georgia.

The stone angel’s face morphs into that of my dearly departed friend. A Radisson High School cheerleader who was killed in a tragic car accident.

It couldn’t be, though. I helped her pass into the light. She has no business remaining here.

I glance over the knoll to the left and see the freshly grown grass plot of Farah Lewis, my classmate, my friend. Then, I turn back to the grave marker where the angel’s face took on Farah’s features. It
was
her face, but not anymore.

Surely I’m going nuts, beans, and crackers.

I stare at the angel again, rattled to my core, fearing that I didn’t do my job and Farah has been relinquished to float the earth in some sort of purgatory.

“Get over it, Kendall,” I hear.

I spin around only to find myself alone. The other ladies from the DAR are too spread out in the cemetery for me to hear or see them.

“Okay, who’s here?” I ask bravely.

The wind whistles through the bare pecan trees and carries on it the soft sound of the bells from the Methodist church ringing out “O Come All Ye Faithful.”

“The faithful has come,” I say to no one. “Show yourself or else I can’t help you.”

“Oh, but Kendall,” the soft voice says. “I’m here to help you.”

“Who are you?”

“You know who I am.”

I bite my lip to stave off my growing annoyance… and fear. “Seriously. I don’t have time for games. It’s getting dark, it’s cold, and I need to get home.”

“To what? Everyone who’s ignoring you?” the voice asks.

Tears threaten behind my eyes at this mocking spirit, one that knows the downward spiraling direction of my life. “You don’t scare me. Just show yourself and tell me what you want.”

There. That sounded authoritative.

Before I know it, a thin mist creeps around my ankles and feet, lowering the temperature in the cemetery to a chilling degree of frost. A swirling vector of blue and white light in front of me makes me take a few steps back. I fist my hands together at my side, as if that will do any good against a malevolent spirit.

Through the brightness, a soft, warm smile appears, surrounded by the light chocolate skin and sky blue eyes I remember so well.

Hands on her hip, she says to me with a smirk, “Don’t tell me you don’t remember your old friend, Farah.”

The same face. The very same.

I do everything in my power not to pass the hell out.

S
TANZA 3:
A
D
IRECTIVE FOR THE
N
IGHT

When I find my voice, I say, “Farah, I helped you pass you into the light. What are you doing here?”

She’s no longer wearing the cheerleader uniform she had on when she was killed in the car accident. The same outfit I saw her in until she walked into the light. The very ensemble her parents donated to the school for them to make into a memorial. In its place, Farah is wearing a flowing white gown, sleeveless, and off the shoulder with sequins on the bodice. If I didn’t know that she’d passed away tragically, I’d say she was practicing for a turn down the catwalk at the next Miss Georgia USA pageant.

She points to her gown. “It’s really lovely, isn’t it?”

“You look great,” I say. “But….”

“The afterlife is good for me,” she tells me. “They really
do
have choirs of angels in heaven. I had to best this one girl for lead vocals in the upcoming Christmas pageant. She can’t hit a high C like I can.”

Farah was a budding opera singer before her death. No one in Radisson could hold a candle to that girl’s voice. Apparently, neither can anyone in heaven.

I frown at her, though, an disbelieving look no doubt crossing my face. “So, if you’re all happy and singing up in heaven, why are you here right now?”

She spreads her hands. “I’d think that’s pretty obvious.”

“What do you want from me?” I ask.

Farah’s booming voice, louder than any freight train of Cat5 hurricane, encompasses me. “Oh honey, you have no idea.”

I drop the remaining poppies to the ground and cover my ears from the roaring sound of her words. My knees buckle from trembling and I fall forward. The sod is moist with evening dew and I feel it soak into my jeans, yet I can’t move.

This ghost of my friend, who I crossed into the light, stands before me going against everything I’ve learned in my experiences investigating the paranormal. She shouldn’t be here. She should be at peace. I should be at peace
from
her.

The built-up angst and anxiety of the weeks, and the disappointment leading up to this day, climb right up on my shoulders and press down like a cheerleader attempting a stunt. I’m not strong enough to hold up, though. Tears fall from my eyes as I think of my grandparents, Patrick, Celia and Jason, Loreen and Mass, Kaitlin and my parents. Everything. All of it. Who am I? Where do I fit in? Do I even belong?

“That’s why I’m here, Kendall,” the ghost says.

Sniffing, I ask, “Why? To show me that I’ve failed?”

Farah’s right next to me. “Failed how?”

Looking up at her, I blink hard. “You’re
here
. I’m not a good ghost huntress if I can’t keep you where you belong.”

Farah’s laugh is as melodic as her singing voice. “You believe in so many things, Kendall. But do you believe in yourself?”

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, the tears turning to near ice on my skin from the cold wind whipping around. “What’s the point? I’m a throw-away kid with no real family of my own. I’m part of someone else’s household. All I’m good for is talking with the dead that wander the earth, but I can’t even keep them in their place if you’re any indication.”