Ashes to Ashes (6 page)

The car's engine grows fainter. Thatcher steps aside, knowing he's won. I rush past him and lean out the window, trying to see where Nick is heading.

“Callie, listen!” This time Thatcher's voice isn't distant or calm—it's sharp and immediate.

I glare at him. “You're more of a bully than a Guide.”

“And you're the most emotional ghost I've met in years.”

“Are you telling me that other people just accept
dying
?”

“There's usually an obliviousness for new ghosts, an amnesia about life that makes it easier to haunt. The newly dead are calm by nature.”

“Well
I'm
not,” I say.

“Clearly.”

“Are you saying I'm overly sensitive?”

“You're less . . .” He stops, and I can see him weighing his words, something real friends don't have to do. For some inconceivable reason, I wish we were real friends.

“Comatose?” I ask, thinking about Ella Hartley's dull eyes.

Thatcher scowls. “Something like that.”

I drop my head back, sighing as I watch the shadows from the headlights of a passing car dance over the ceiling. Even shadows exist in this world with more solidity than I do. At least they're visible.

Thatcher sighs, too. “I'm on your side.”

“Is that why you turned away from me earlier?”

His face falls, but just for a moment, and then he puts on his mask again. The one that hides his feelings. One of the things I love about Nick is his openness and honesty. He never hides anything from me. That's why he's hurting so badly now.

“Okay,” I say. “If you're really on my side, then take me to my father.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“There's an order to haunting,” he says. “First you practice on people who aren't as close to you—the portals will lead you to them. And you work up to the ones who mean the most.”

I consider this “order” for a moment. “But Nick is someone I love. He's as close to me as anyone in my life.”

Thatcher doesn't respond; he just looks out the window.

“Did you hear me?” I say. “Nick is important!”

“I don't decide these things,” says Thatcher. “The universe does.”

“The universe does,”
I mock him. He sounds so crazy. This is all so freaking crazy. And terrifying. I don't want to be without the people I love, the ones who love me.

“Can't you just leave me here?” I ask. “I'll sign something saying that I take full responsibility for my actions. I'll figure it all out on my own.”

“It's not that simple. I know it might not feel like it, but you did well. Your energy is extreme, but . . .” His voice trails off and then he meets my eyes. “Don't worry—you'll find ways to help everyone you love move forward.”

His tone is gentle again. I soften, letting my frustration give way to sadness as I sink down onto my bed. Thatcher scans the room once, taking in each corner of my old life, and then he comes back to the bed and sits down with me. When I look up at him, I notice a tiny scar on the left side of his chin. I wonder how he got it.

“But how do I move forward?”

“I need you to be patient while you learn,” he says. “You are not to haunt anyone unless I'm by your side. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” I've always been independent, willing to explore new things, but it's not like I can research this realm on Google and figure out where I need to go or what I need to do. As much as I hate to admit it, I also seem to have no instincts when it comes to this haunting business. It felt horrible trying to make Nick see and hear me without any response from him. Thatcher is the only thing here that makes me believe that I still
exist
.

Then he stands up, and panic rises in my chest. I don't want to go anywhere, not now. “No, I'm not leaving my house. I need to stay here. I want to see my father—”

“Callie, I swear to you, you'll see your father,” says Thatcher. “Right now let's just take a break.”

I look down at my yellow area rug, all tufted and bright except for the worn-in spot where I step out of bed in the mornings. I want to lie down under my soft comforter and sleep forever, only waking up if I can start this day all over again.

“I don't want to go,” I whisper.

“I know,” he says, a tinge of regret in his voice, like he
does
know.

“Did you . . .” Within the depths of his gray-blue eyes is an openness, an honesty that draws me in. “Did you, you know,
haunt
your family?”

He turns away from me. “I tried.”

The back of his neck stiffens.

“Do you still haunt them?” I ask.

“Not really,” he says, turning to me again. “But sometimes I—”

His eyes meet and hold mine. I see him struggling to find the words. For the first time, he seems almost as vulnerable as I feel.

“Sometimes you . . . ,” I prod gently.

Sadness flickers in his eyes, and he doesn't finish his sentence. Instead he says, “We'll come here again very soon.”

I decide not to push him. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

“It wasn't Nick's fault. My death, I mean.”

“Of course not.”

“You know how I died?” I ask.

“I know enough.”

“I didn't mean to hurt anyone, to cause so much sorrow.”

“We never do.” Thatcher's voice holds an immense amount of understanding. I wonder who-all he hurt. Maybe I do need to trust him. It's clear that reaching out to Nick on my own won't work—I can't even connect with a perfume bottle, let alone a person.

“Will I ever be able to tell him that?” I ask. “That it wasn't his fault?”

“Yes,” Thatcher says, creating a portal and motioning for me to stand up.

And I do, because I want to believe him.

Six

KALMIA, MAGNOLIAS, AND ROSES
are growing in this perfectly kept garden. It's dark outside, but I'd know this spot even if I were blindfolded.

“Middleton Place,” I whisper.

After speeding through the portal, I find the stillness of the historic plantation startling, almost like a quiet morning after a torrential rainstorm. We're on Ashley River Road, right along the water. There's a main house with wide-sweeping terraces that look out on acres of manicured grasses, gorgeous paths, and long, garden-lined vistas to the river and the marshland in the distance.

“I used to come here with Mama,” I tell Thatcher, staring out at two swans swimming in the reflection pool in front of us. Lanterns along the dark shore cast a soft yellow glow. “We'd bring bread crumbs and sit by the water together.”

I smile at the memory of my mother—it seems sharper in my mind now that I'm back here again. I spin around slowly, taking in the landscape and missing the light, powdery scent of the crepe myrtle all around us. Homesickness and a deep loneliness wash over me.

“Is there someone I'm supposed to haunt here?” I ask, wondering when I'll visit Carson. I want to see her, but I doubt she's out in the middle of the night.

“No,” says Thatcher. “I just wanted to bring you, I mean . . . I wanted you to have . . .”

He fumbles over his words, like he's nervous.

“I wanted to give you a break,” he finally says. “After seeing Nick. I know that was kind of . . .”

“Intense,” I finish for him. I flash back to my bedroom, and I realize how suffocatingly sad it felt there, surrounded by all that I've lost. I'm grateful for the open night sky above me right now.

“Right. And this is the most serene spot I know of in Charleston, at least at night, so . . .”

He pauses again, and when I see his furrowed brow, I realize that he's waiting for my reaction. “Thank you,” I say. “This place means a lot to me.”

Thatcher gives me a quick smile and turns toward the path, away from the pond. “Shall we take a walk?” he asks, like he's an old-time gentleman come to call on the lady of the plantation.

He starts off on the path without waiting for an answer, and I watch him move gracefully, a few steps in front of me. I peer down at his feet, so close to the earth but not quite touching it, and I wonder if he always had this smooth rhythm to his walk or if it's a ghost thing. His motions are so controlled, so deliberate. It's like he's holding on to something—maybe his whole sense of the universe—very tightly.

I follow behind him, my eyes raking over the grounds. I've never been here at night, and as ironic as it sounds given my current ghost status, it's a little spooky without all the tourists milling around.

I rush to catch up to him, and for a second I almost take his arm, because it feels natural, but something holds me back. We walk together slowly and quietly. There's an ease to our silence that's almost more comforting than talking, and I'm suddenly glad that it isn't Sarah or Ryan who's with me in this strange new space.

“Why did you volunteer to be my Guide?” I ask.

He hesitates. Finally, he says, “Sarah and Ryan are new Guides. I could tell that Ryan was already nervous about your abundance of emotion, and Sarah is just so caring and sweet. She's not comfortable being firm when firmness is needed. She coddles. That's not what will help you. You have a strong aura. I knew you'd be a challenge.”

“A strong aura? Is that a polite way of saying I'm a pain in the butt, so you decided I needed a hardass?”

Thatcher makes a sound like he's choking back a laugh. “You don't mince words, do you?”

I find myself wondering what his full-throated laughter sounds like. Why is he so closed up, so afraid to let loose his feelings?

“Your other . . . gosh, I don't even know what I am. Your student, I guess. Anyway, the others. Do you miss them?”

“No. We don't form attachments.”

That might explain why he holds such a tight rein on his emotions. I can't imagine having people coming and going constantly through my life—or my death—and not feeling anything at all toward them. Or them not feeling anything toward me.

It seems like such a sterile existence.

About halfway to the main house, I hear a noise in the stable yards, where I
know
there aren't horses anymore.

“Ghost horses?” I ask.

And
that
makes Thatcher really laugh. The sound is deep and genuine, more full of life than anything else about him so far. But I guess it makes sense that he wouldn't be full of life.

Still, it echoes around us, seems to travel through my soul. I want to place my hand against his throat and feel the vibrations of joy that I thought he was incapable of making. He's so much more approachable in this moment, like someone I would know from school. It swallows up the distance between us.

“No,” he says, still smiling. “Animals must go to another place.”

“No pets in the Prism?”

“Afraid not.”

So he'll never be reunited with Griz. That doesn't seem fair, and it makes me sadder than anything else has so far. I almost ask him about it, but there's no sense in bringing him down, too. “So what was that noise then?”

“It's just Miss Alice.”

“Am I supposed to know who that is?” I ask.

“You've never heard of her?”

I think for a minute—Carson has definitely told me about supernatural activity at Middleton Place.

“She's the ghost who lives here?” I ask, unsure.

“Right,” he says. “Let's test that exquisite memory of yours. Do you know her story?”

We step into the stable yards, and I try to recall the history of this place. “I think the Middleton family had, like, eight hundred slaves back in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. So I bet some of those ghosts are hanging around.”

“Don't you think they'd rather pass through the Prism and leave this life behind?” asks Thatcher, eyeing the old farm tools on display in the stables. “There can't be that many happy memories for slaves here.”

“Good point.”

“Miss Alice walks the grounds at night,” says Thatcher. “She wasn't a slave—she was a local daughter deemed not worthy of the boy she loved, a Middleton heir. She died an old maid in her thirties, and she still wears old-fashioned clothes.”

I snort, not bothering to hide my skepticism.

“It's true,” he says, hand on his heart.

“Aiiiiioooooooouuuuuuu . . .”

A low, eerie wail emerges from one of the stables. Thatcher's face tightens into a grimace. That noise did
not
sound like it came from someone named “Miss Alice.”

“Stay behind me,” Thatcher orders, putting his arm out protectively but moving toward the third stable, where the cry seemed to have emanated from.

As we creep closer, two figures sprint out of the doorway, running like they've seen a . . . well, you know.

Thatcher doesn't even glance at the people running—he's focused on the stable. When we get to the entrance, he steps determinedly into the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest and blocking the exit.

“Leo,” he grinds out, his tone full of disapproval.

I peer around his shoulder and see a huge, muscled guy with tight-cropped blond hair and a bulging-vein-in-neck issue. He's holding a hay hook in his hand, but when he sees Thatcher, he lets it drop into the soft dirt at his feet.

He's in real clothes—jeans and a T-shirt without any shimmering metallic sheen like the other ghosts have—but it's clear that this
Leo
is a ghost. He doesn't seem calm or graceful like the other ghosts I've seen, though—his energy is off the charts, like he just got a pep talk from his football coach before a state championship game. His cheeks have a slight stubble, the white-blond kind that catches the light, and his eyes are a dark brown, deep set and trained on Thatcher.

“Just having a little fun, T,” says Leo. “You remember fun, right?” He tilts his head in a mocking gesture.

“Leo, you know you shouldn't be—”

“Oh, please,” Leo interrupts Thatcher. “They were a couple of teenagers making out in the barn. I gave them a scare, and now they'll have a good story to tell their grandkids. No harm done.”

I study the hay hook on the ground; its sharp blade is rusted but glinting menacingly in the moonlight.

“Did you get a look at them as they ran?” Leo asks me. “Were they friends of yours . . . Callie?”

My head snaps up.
He knows my name?

I meet his eyes, staring back at him. I can tell that he's used to people being intimidated by him, but I've never been big on fear. Besides, what can he really do to hurt me? I'm dead.

“Stop it, Leo,” says Thatcher.

“What?” Leo makes an innocent face. “I heard she has an amazing memory.”

I'm taken aback. People—or . . . ghosts—are talking about me?

“And so much energy. God, it's practically pulsing off her.” With a feral glint in his eyes, he rushes toward me—

Thatcher steps in front of me and Leo goes flying backward, collapsing onto the hay. A concussion of air explodes between him and Thatcher, and I can feel the vibrations throbbing around me.

Releasing dark laughter, Leo shoves himself to his feet. “I just need a little energy, T. Don't be so stingy with it.” He shifts his gaze over to me. “You should let me be your Guide, Callie. I'll teach you things this guy never will.”

“You're not a Guide, Leo,” Thatcher says.

“Doesn't mean she couldn't learn from me.”

He charges toward Thatcher. When he's close, another wave of power or energy or whatever it is ripples between them. Thatcher takes a step back, regains his balance, and remains standing. Leo hits the ground hard. He chuckles. “That would hurt if I were still alive.” He scrambles back to his feet. “Come on, T, play fair. Turn off that I-shall-not-be-touched vibe you got going. Have you noticed that, Callie? This guy keeps so much distance between him and others, he might as well be on Mars. He's probably told you that we can't feel; we can't experience things like we did before. But that's just because he's afraid to feel anything.”

“You should go,” Thatcher says.

“Not until I knock you off your feet.” He lowers himself into a tackling stance.

“Hey, are we having a party and I wasn't invited?” A raven-haired girl with dark skin and delicate features steps between Leo and Thatcher. Leo relaxes his stance.

She's small, petite, but something in her confident stance makes me think she isn't to be messed with.
And she's wearing clothes, too
. Her tight jeans outline muscular legs, and her tank top shows off her strong shoulders.

She glances at me briefly, and then her large brown eyes zero in on Thatcher, apparently her target all along. Her face is like a porcelain doll's—perfect rosebud lips and high cheekbones. The word
lovely
comes to mind. Those brown eyes look like they have glowing embers inside them—they flicker and burn. This girl, though obviously a ghost, looks
alive
—not like Ella or the others with their serene expressions.

“You two are not supposed to be here,” Thatcher insists.

“You're not in charge of where we go,” says Leo.

“Don't fight, boys,” says the girl, smiling now. She fastens her gaze on me. “Callie, welcome to the other side. How's Thatcher treating you so far?”

“He's been great,” I say, confused about who these two are and why animosity is thick in the air between Thatcher and Leo.

“Really?” she asks, flashing an even bigger grin. “He doesn't like that many ghosts, doesn't warm up to them, so take it as a compliment.”

I can't tell if she's taking a jab at Thatcher or trying to put me at ease.

“Reena, please,” says Thatcher, and I hear a twinge of hurt in his tone. A definite jab.

“Oh, Thatcher.” Her voice lilts affectionately. “It's okay to make a new friend
.
”

Leo lets out a loud laugh, and it sounds kind of mean. I move forward, feeling unexpectedly defensive for Thatcher.

“So attached already?” asks the girl, raising her eyebrows in surprise. “Don't worry, Callie—Leo and Thatcher are old friends.” She smiles then, sincerely, and I'm drawn in to the light around her.

I smile back before I can help myself.

“I'm Reena,” she says.

“Nice to meet you.” My manners kick in automatically.

“You grew up in Charleston, too?” she asks.

“Born and raised, for a few generations now.”

“Cool,” she says. “I'm a transplant. Army brat.”

“Oh, my dad's in the Navy,” I say. “Well, he was. He teaches at the Citadel now.”

“Awesome,” says Reena. “My younger brother goes there.”

“You have a younger brother in college?” She doesn't look older than me.

“Yeah,” she answers, smiling. “Weird, huh? If I were alive, I'd be, like . . . twenty-eight!”

She and Leo break up laughing. “So old!” he shouts.

I back up a step, realizing that I'm talking to people who have been
dead
for, like . . . ten years? Will I be here that long? Thatcher said it was best to move on quickly—so why haven't Reena and Leo moved on? Why don't they glow? Why don't they look like Ella?

Reena locks her eyes onto my face and studies it so intently that I feel a little awkward.

“Have I got a zit on my nose or something?” I ask.

She grins, clearly not offended by my snarkiness. “You're funny. No, I can't figure out what it is, but you're not like the others.”

“Her energy is off the charts,” Leo says.