Apparition (6 page)

“Can I show you one thing before you do? It’s my own little secret. It’s downstairs.”

He means the basement. Mysterious and creepy old guy wants to take me down into his basement. I take a deep breath and shrug. What more could happen? “Okay.”

He leads me across the kitchen and down some narrow stairs.

This doesn’t feel like a typical basement. I like it. There’s a wood stove, lots of books and antique stuff, and a very large old desk. Morris runs around the desk and reaches underneath, pulling a long tube from what seems to be a hidden shelf. He takes a sheet from the tube, unfurls it with a loud flourish and flicks on an overhead light.

It’s a worn and marked-up map of Grey County, the kind that shows you different colours for farmland and forest and land formations. Some kind of topography map. The roads are marked but not named. He points a finger along a series of red dots, each tagged with a number and a piece of paper with tiny handwritten notes. I lean in for a closer look. The dots run roughly in a line, cutting through the county more or less horizontally.

“What is that?”

“Well, each of those dots represents a ghost story that I’ve stumbled across over the years, buried in the local records or passed on by word of mouth from elderly folks in the county. I’ve been gathering research on these stories for ages.”

“But why are they all lined up like that?”

“Good question. Among believers in the paranormal there’s the idea
that spiritual energy runs through the landscape in specific alignments, sometimes called ley lines. That was a phrase first used back in
1921
by a British archeologist, who noticed that geographic and historical landmarks often seemed to occur in alignment with each other, along single tracks over hundreds of miles. For instance, in England there is said to be a ley line connecting Glastonbury, which is believed by some to be the burial place of King Arthur, to Stonehenge and other important ancient sites. He thought of them as ancient trackways or footpaths. ‘Ley lines’ just means lines cutting through the landscape.”

“Okay. But what’s the point?”

“Well, what’s important is that the alignments are more than pure coincidence. They have a spiritual purpose. And this isn’t just Old World folklore. It’s universal and timeless. You’d be amazed at how many references there are to special routes or pathways in aboriginal mythology, kind of like migration routes for ghosts. Ancients from Australia, China, South America—even right here in Grey County—believed the souls of the dead travelled along ghost roads to get to the underworld or some other final resting place. The idea is that certain locations have sacred power—the ground is hallowed and the places are haunts.”

“But what do these ley lines have to do with ghost sightings?”

“Well, my theory is that when people die they take a journey, an actual journey, only sometimes they get sidetracked on their way, or stuck from the start. And those people are what we think of as ghosts. They haunt the spots where they get stuck, unable to move forward along the line. Call it having unfinished business, or just getting trapped. Emotionally trapped.”

Listening to him, looking at his map, I suddenly feel like a door has opened up and the world has doubled in size. It sounds completely crazy, only it kind of makes total sense.

“Interesting, eh? And guess what? Can you find the Telford property on the map?”

I take a closer look at the roads and find Highway 26, and then I figure out which road running south is 12th Line. I find Big Trout River, which cuts through just north of our new place, and run my finger along 12th Line to where I imagine the Telford property must be. It roughly lines up with the other red dots.

“See what I mean?” says Morris. He picks up a red marker and makes a little dot for the Telford property.

“But what about my mom in the backyard of my home in Owen Sound? I mean, our house wouldn’t be on that line.”

“Not every ghostly apparition I hear about is on that line, just most of them. That’s the pattern. But my research isn’t just about the pattern. It’s everything I’ve learned along the way about the nature of ghosts. And that’s where your mother came in.” He takes one last look at his map, lost in some thought. “I learned so much from her.” A shadow of sadness passes over his face. “It must have felt like a blessing to see her after she’d died,” he says, and he starts rolling up the map. “She might have been worried about you. Maybe, for some reason, she’s less worried now.” He fits it back in the tube, and he perks up. “So now you know all my secrets.”

A voice from the kitchen at the top of the stairs makes me jump. “Not quite. What about the time you killed the Wilsons’ dog?”

Morris’s eyes roll at that. “Ignore him. A total accident fifteen years ago. That’s my son, Kip.”

“I’m just saying, someone could get hurt around you,” says the voice.

“He’s staying with me for a while. Up from Chicago. That’s where his mother lives.”

“Ah.” I nod. “Well, I should really get going.”

“Of course,” he says. He returns the tube to its hiding place under the desk and follows me back up to the kitchen.

Turning the corner at the top of the stairs, I practically bash into his son. I guess my nerves are bad, because it gives me such a start. Also, he’s kind of good-looking and I suddenly feel awkward, and embarrassed that my eyes and nose might still be red from crying.

“Sorry,” I mumble, trying to smile politely.

“Don’t be,” he says, a bit cocky, almost like he’s flirting.

Totally not like his dad. More like a son of Brad Pitt.

Morris makes a speedy introduction. “Kip, Amelia. Amelia, Kip.”

I mumble again, too self-conscious to look him in the face.

“Hi there,” Kip says, with a look of suspicion. “I must say, you two don’t look like you’re up to anything creepy. Not at all.”

He says that like he’s teasing us, and it gives me the nerve to glance up at him. He’s a head taller than me. His hair is dirty blond, longish like his dad’s, shaggy but thicker. He has the shadow of a beard on his chin. Blue, blue eyes, and a wide smile. As if there’s some private joke going on. I don’t know why, but that bugs me. Nothing about this seems like a joke to me. In fact, how could anything be more serious?

“Excuse me.” I have to squeeze past him, and it’s all I can think to say.

Morris walks me out onto the porch. I turn to him.

“You can’t know how much … how much this means to me,” I say, struggling to keep myself from getting too emotional again. “It changes absolutely everything. Whatever you plan to do about that barn, count me in. Whatever you’re up to, I’m in.”

I catch one last glimpse of Kip as Morris and I shake hands goodbye. He’s standing in the middle of the kitchen in blue jeans and bare feet, looking at the floor, smiling to himself and slowly shaking his head.

Sitting at my desk in my bedroom tonight, I’m feeling so anxious and excited that I can’t stand it. Thoughts and memories are exploding in my head like fireworks. The hardest part has been coming home from meeting Morris and trying to act as though nothing’s changed when, really, I feel like my life has taken a dramatic turn. It’s frightening but it also feels good somehow, like a huge relief. I’ve been keeping things locked up inside for so long. If only my mother had said more! Did she try, and I just didn’t understand? I’m so angry at losing her when she was the only one who ever understood me, and I’m angry at being abandoned to Joyce, of all people.

What must it have been like for Mom, having Joyce for a mother? My mom was warm and gentle, not like Joyce at all. I used to ask myself why Joyce couldn’t be more like a proper grandmother. You know, gentle and kind. More like Mrs. Ross, for instance.

It’s been ages since I’ve thought about Mrs. Ross. She lived in the seniors’ residence where Mom and Joyce used to volunteer. They had a program called Young Readers for Seniors. Mom said I should sign up, back when I was in grade eight and she was really getting sick, because she thought I was such a good reader. But it was the last thing I wanted to do. Then the next year, after she was gone, something changed my mind. I went for two hours, once a week, for about half a year. In all that time, I only managed to get through one book with one old lady: Mrs. Ross.

Mrs. Ross was tiny but she had great posture. She was like a ninety-pound white-haired gymnast. Always so neat and ladylike. She listened to books on CDs, but she said she liked having a live voice read to her once in a while. She always seemed so happy to see me. Of course she couldn’t see me very well. She wasn’t blind exactly, but she had an eye disease and her sight was lousy.

Now, she was my idea of a sweet old lady. A real grandmother type, not like Joyce. In fact, Mrs. Ross made Joyce look like a drill sergeant. Joyce means well, I guess, but there’s nothing sweet about her. Whereas Mrs. Ross could win contests for that kind of thing.

I read Mrs. Ross a book called
Great Expectations
, by Charles Dickens. It was her choice, not mine. I only know him because of the movies of
A Christmas Carol
and
Oliver Twist
. Reading the book was absolute murder because of the crazy way everybody talks, with those old-fashioned English accents. I think she got a kick out of listening to me try to read the dialogue. She sure looked like she was having fun.

Once she asked me how I felt about the fact that Pip, the main character, is an orphan, and so is Estella, the girl he loves. Pip is raised by his mean old sister and her nice but stupid husband, and Estella is raised by crazy Mrs. Havisham in a big, rundown mansion. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of this myself—I guess I was paying more attention to the mystery and romance and buttered bread down poor Pip’s pants—but Mrs. Ross said something that totally shocked me.

“I guess you must really identify with those two kids. Because you’re an orphan too, like Pip and Estella.”

I don’t know why that hit me so hard. I know I don’t have parents and all—not like most other kids—but it’s hard to see yourself as an orphan when you have two brothers and a grandmother, even if she’s kind of tough on you.
An orphan
. That sounds pretty harsh.

Just then, Mrs. Ross reached out her hand and was feeling for mine. It was embarrassing but I let her find it, and she held on to it, with her bony bird fingers and soft, loose skin. She held on for ages, and the longer she held on, the more uncomfortable I became, and the more I felt like crying. I didn’t feel up to reading much more
that day. Especially when she finally gave my hand a squeeze and let go, saying something like “It’s hard to lose someone you love.” Her eyes got shiny with tears and she talked a bit about her husband, who had died ten years before. She said she still missed him every day. When she said that, I kind of wished we were still holding hands, but I didn’t know what to do about it.

That’s the only time we ever shared something personal. Normally we’d focus on the book, with me reading and her making little comments on the side.

I’ll never forget the way I felt when I came to the end of
Great Expectations
. It was like something important just up and walked out of my life. I felt depressed for a week. But I never went back to see Mrs. Ross again, because by then I was totally into Matthew. Sometimes I think about her and wonder if she’s still alive. I think about how I wouldn’t mind reading to her again someday. Before she’s gone for good.

I turn on my computer and stare at Matthew’s face, his dark, smiling eyes.

Matthew, there’s this Halloween party at Brad Wilson’s next weekend. He never invited me. But Morgan’s going and she says I should go too, because she heard Brad say that he’s fine with people bringing other friends if they want. So should I go? I just have this feeling that if I don’t hold on to this little lifeline that Morgan throws me once in a while, I’ll sink. But I’d have to wear a costume. Ugh. A white sheet, maybe?

I
’m in the back seat of Jack’s friend Jeremy’s car. Jack’s up front in the passenger seat. We’re driving to Brad’s house, for the big Halloween party that everyone in town seems to be planning to crash. This is my first social event in a long while. I wasn’t going to bother with it, partly because coming up with a costume seemed too stressful, but Jack talked me into it. He said he’d be there with a few of his grade twelve buddies and would keep an eye on me.

Not too many brothers are as nice as Jack. But the truth is, he also wants to keep an eye on Morgan. He’s got it bad for her, poor guy.

Jack’s dressed up as a zombie, with lots of white face paint, green around his eyes and mouth, and fake blood dripping from his ears and nose. He’s put red food colouring all over his tongue. Jeremy’s a vampire, with spiky bleached hair and a long black trench coat—like Spike from the old TV show
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
. I’m guessing three-quarters of the people at this party will be either zombies or vampires.

Me, I’ve got my costume in my lap. It’s a rubber Bob Marley mask that Joyce picked up in the city last week. It has a dreadlock wig attached. Bob Marley was a Jamaican reggae singer, and Joyce is a big fan. I think he died before I was born. I just looked at the mask and said, “Fine. Whatever.” It’s not great to breathe through, but I like the fact that no one will ever guess it’s me underneath. That’s what I’m counting on.