Adelaide Upset (2 page)

He knew this, but wouldn’t
be pandering to my wishes just now. His face, oddly glassy in
appearance, was hard, the look of disapproval unmistakable. But
just in case, he seemed to throw his feelings at me, making sure I
got the message.

“
Yes. Yes. I was mean to
Stephen. I’m
always
mean to Stephen and you disapprove. I shouldn’t
be short with him... I get it.”

He stalked forward, his heavy tread making
not a sound, and snatched up one of the pens from off the
counter.

“
No!” I said, snatching it
back. “No more notes, they’re creepy.”

The thing about normal
ghosts is that they tend to float around in a misty splash of
white, harmless and unseen. But Smith wasn’t a normal ghost, and
that was my doing. The ring (which I had been given, talk about a
gift horse) gave me the power to see ghosts, but since I was an
empath, I could feel them too. And that was all it
took—acknowledgement on my part. Suddenly Smith wasn’t weak and
wispy, but able to touch and feel. Nancy Bristow would say I was
giving him back a piece of his soul, giving him power on our side
of the veil. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what I was doing, not really,
but it was something, that was undeniable.

By influencing things
around him, Smith got stronger. So we’d talk, like now, the
conversations very one-sided, and it sort of fed him in a way,
giving him energy, making him more substantial. He would then take
that ‘energy’ and start charging his own batteries, ergo the notes.
Smith loved leaving me creepy notes. The act of using a pencil took
fine motor skill, it must have been draining, because his letters
were always large and childish, though scrawled and unsettling
would be more accurate, since he was a ghost and all. I found them
everywhere, post-its stuck all around the house, warning me the
milk was low and other nonsense.

Simply touching things
wasn’t enough, that would only drain him and give nothing back. He
had to make a mark, make his presence known. So I found my radio
blaring more often than not. It was good I didn’t own a TV or
computer because he would have turned them on too, and often. I
could put up with the haunted bit, but it got annoying when Lucas
started noticing. A week or so ago he’d asked why I stayed up all
night, moving around the house, turning on and off every light
switch. I had mumbled something about bugs and changed the
subject... ghosts were so inconvenient.

Unable to write out his
frustration, Smith dissolved into a murky mist, swirling to the
corner where he sulked, hovering behind the potted
plant.

“
Ungrateful ghoul,” I
muttered in his direction. “Stephen told me about the sawmill. You
should be happy, now I have a lead.”

But he wasn’t happy. The
news only agitated him further, and for the life of me I didn’t
know why. He wanted me to help him, but he could never explain how.
I turned in the swivel chair, using the office computer to browse
the internet as I searched for local logging and sawmill companies.
I would get to the bottom of things, with or without the help of my
enigmatic ghost.

It was almost nine and
Missy, as usual, showed up early to relieve me. Since I was pretty
sure she considered herself a ‘creature of the night’ it was
convenient that she worked the late shift. Though I’m sure it was
something of a let down, sitting behind the front desk for hours,
bored into the wee hours of the morning.

She smiled at me, though
as usual, she was faking. Despite appearances, and by that I mean
the purple hair, she was a friendly, outgoing person, except she
secretly hated me. Behind the smile was a well of irritation. I
rubbed her the wrong way, which was fine. I could care
less.

I’d left the web browser
open, and seeing it Missy tsked. “You really shouldn’t be playing
on the internet at work. Ben wouldn’t like it,” she
chastened.

I opened the desk drawer,
extracting my purse. “Keep that in mind the next time you’re
looking at coffinmate.com. You forgot to delete your history last
night.” I walked out, wanting to put distance between myself and
her swamping negativity.

It was always the same.
You’d think she would either loosen up or scratch my eyes out, but
every day it was the fake smile and perpetual remarks, little digs
she tried to pass off as ‘advice,’ though only an idiot would be
fooled by her sickly sweet voice.

Even as I got into my car
I couldn’t shake her negativity, it clung along. Missy would soon
forget, busy surfing through the goth personal ads, but it would
linger with me, the empathy confirming what I’d learned years
ago—that people in general were a huge disappointment.

Divot Drive seemed to
greet me as I turned onto the out-of-the-way back road. Massive
oaks hemmed in close, their Spanish moss hanging down like a soft
curtain. Lush shrubbery encroached from every side, overgrown, it
housed the crickets and cicadas, their combined shrills filling the
night. Turning into the driveway, my headlights illuminated the
tiny house where I lived, a cube of whitewashed wood with red brick
chimney and tin roof.

The house belonged to Ben.
I was just renting it from him, and for cheap. If Stephen and Missy
ever found out about the deal he’d been giving me for years, they
would certainly be surprised. I turned off my miserable excuse for
a car and went inside, dropping my shoes as I made my way into the
kitchen.

Lucas was home. Through
the large bay window I could see the lights on at his place. I
wanted to run over first thing because I was pathetically obsessed
with him, having reverted to where my life left off in the ninth
grade. But I wouldn’t, not just yet. I had something to do
first.

Slipping into the closet
under my stairs, I squeezed past the upright washer and dryer,
taking care not to step on the mop and broom, before opening the
gray metal fuse box. Inside was Demidov’s diary, the thin leather
volume stowed away, fitting perfectly beside a row of black
switches.

I sank to the floor amid a
swirl of dust bunnies, ignoring them as I hurriedly opened the
pages. The golden string was wedged into the book’s crease, helping
me find the passage where I’d left off.

I was not always
conscious of the other realm. My childhood was untroubled, my life
up to the age of thirteen relatively normal. But then the demons
came. Not those creatures I would later come to know, but demons in
human skin. They wore the faces of my kinsman, Russians, whom like
my father and mother, had immigrated to Canada, creating little
communities among Toronto. I’d been at a boxing lesson the day they
appeared. My mother was waiting for me when it ended, she had taken
her car to the shop earlier, and by chance thought to walk me home.
She smiled when I came out, but I was too humiliated to answer,
barely bringing myself to look her in the face. When my peers
spilled out from the building behind me I rushed us off, hoping
they wouldn’t make much of it. We did not speak, and even still I
don’t know if she realized that her presence had embarrassed me
when I was meant to appear my toughest. I was brooding when they
slipped from the shadows, two men, one large, one slight. My mother
grabbed my arm tight, painfully so, pulling me close as she pinned
me to her side. When they demanded her purse she didn’t hesitate to
throw it to them. But it wasn’t enough. The large one dragged her
off, around a corner, the bricks swallowing her shadow in the
looming sunset. The other held me, and though small, he knew just
how to keep me from thrashing. But the noises drove me to madness,
the sound of pounded flesh I knew well from boxing, her struggle
until a new sound issued forth. How I wish I could forget it. How I
wish she’d screamed to mask it. But she’d been quiet throughout,
and when they finally lumbered off with her money, throwing me
aside as an afterthought, I knew why. He’d strangled her, the
bruises already blooming. She was dead. I yanked her skirt down,
scraping her hat off the pavement from where it had fallen,
prepared to hand it to her. But she was dead. It took so long for
me to really grasp that. I had a father and an older brother, and
though they never outright said so, I knew they blamed me,
especially my brother. I could see it in his eyes; ‘I would have
saved her’ they seemed to say to me. A woman adds so much to the
household, without her we crumbled, pieces chipped apart. I have
been so blessed in Agata, my brother’s daughter, our relationship
precious to me. But even she couldn’t stave off the nightmares. The
demons came that day, and a new demon every day after, the other
realm making itself manifest from that moment on.

I could read no more for
now. Pulling the string across the page I marked my place,
carefully hiding it back in the fuse box. It was safe there. I knew
because Raina Thompson hadn’t thought to open it when she’d
searched my house for the diary. Merely having it in my possession
when Reed Wallace and his enemy Lars Hurst were after it, willing
to kill for it, was dangerous. But even so, even seeing how Demidov
had been horrified by his demon dealing from beyond the grave, I
could not stop reading, and not because I hungered for its secrets.
I cared nothing for Demidov’s gift, but I longed to hear his story,
the story of someone like me.

This new passage put me in
mind of something Reed had once said. According to him only those
with the power of divination were born with their gift. Others,
like me, gained ours through life experience. His theory held true,
because Demidov was certainly convinced that the demons from the
street, those men who had mugged, raped and murdered his mother
would follow him, demons to match his guilt, demons to harass him
through this life and into the next.

My story paled in
comparison. Truly, that was the heart of why I couldn’t stop
reading. It comforted me to know someone had it worse. Terrible of
me to say, sure, but true.

I had fallen into a well,
the near-death experience drawing out a range of emotion that
continued for days. My empathy began then, an echo of the
experience that would follow me from the depths of the dirt. Even
after I was rescued I was never truly saved. The well was still
there in part; my life an insular experience, keeping me apart,
keeping me an emotional mess as I struggled to survive.

Demidov’s story was making
me face my own. But like I said, it was comforting to know, in a
selfish sort of way, that someone had suffered worse. I’d like to
say that if Demidov could survive, then so could I. But he hadn’t.
He’d died, and his afterlife had been hell.

I was just shutting the
closet door when Lucas knocked. Unlike me, he typically waited
until I let him in. I did so, eager to put Demidov’s disturbing
revelations to the back of my mind. It wasn’t hard with Lucas
around, seeing him framed over the threshold hitched my mood up
quite a bit.

I knew it was human nature
to be attracted to one’s significant other, even if in reality they
weren’t the least bit appealing. But Lucas Finch was good-looking
in the general sense, having all the marks of masculine beauty. He
had broad shoulders and a tight, tapering waist. His muscles were
obvious but not bulky, and no matter how tattered the T-shirt or
how grease stained the jeans, they would look good on him because
he had a body that was easily flattered. His face was a combination
of rounded, even features, though the hooded eyes gave him a
pensive air. I watched him shut the door softly, intrigued when he
didn’t bother with a perfunctory hello. He fascinated me a great
deal, the one man, the only person, who I could not feel. His
emotions, if there were any, were walled off and
unavailable.

I reached for him, no
longer sheepish to initiate a kiss. He responded, his body
expressive where his emotions and words were not. His hands wrapped
around my waist, lifting me onto the table where I pulled him
forward, wanting him close, standing between my thighs. The kiss
was never-ending. We pivoted around it, escalated by it, hands busy
and roving. I touched his chest and arms, reassuring myself of that
which I refused to ask, that my possessiveness was founded, that in
this way he was mine. His hands were not so restrained, snaking up
my shirt, pushing hems and fabric aside when it suited him. I
relaxed, letting my head tip back as he kissed me, buttons coming
undone, my shirt parting open. I willed myself to get caught up,
lost in the sensations, swearing that this time I wouldn’t say no.
But when the button on my jeans came free and the zipper slid down
I reacted, my hand latching onto his wrist, stopping his
progress.

After weeks of the same,
he was familiar with the drill, pulling away, stepping back, and a
few deep breaths from both of us. Francesca said I was being a
tease. I didn’t mean to, there just always came a point when I sort
of froze, a little anxious, though that moment came a little later
every time. Things were progressing, just slowly. Too slowly. It
was time to jump-start things.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said, my head down
as I buttoned up my shirt. “Maybe we should just do it. Have
sex.”

“
You stopped before third
base,” he replied. “What makes you think you’re ready?” His voice
wasn’t unkind, but rather flat. I couldn’t help but wonder why he
bothered asking questions if he wasn’t curious to begin
with.