Ghost Town (2 page)

I stared at my chipped purple nail polish, unwilling
to look out the window, unwilling to inhale more East Coast air. My dad was trying so hard to make me happy. But I had this huge knot in my stomach that just wouldn't go away and I couldn't pretend to be happy, not even for my dad. Not today.

Pressing the automatic window button on my side, I heard the glass close, cocooning us once again in our bubble against the world.

“Do you want to talk about it?” my father asked, for what was probably the hundredth time. His voice was gentle. “Come on, Sara, the move will be good for us.”

“How do you know that?” I asked, shifting my gaze from the oblong stain of unknown origin on the gray-blue upholstered seat to the gray faux-leather dashboard. I held tight to the belief that if I didn't look outside, New Jersey wouldn't exist. “I liked California.”

My dad ran one hand through his curly brown hair. “You'll like it here, too. Give it time.” He turned his attention back to the road through the small town, clogged with late-summer beach traffic.

Discussion over. That was classic Dad. He didn't like to dig too deep, or push too hard. He preferred to wait for me to come to him, which was fine when
I was little, but it's a little more complicated now that I'm twelve.

What I didn't get was why—
now
—were we suddenly diving in and moving across the country to some strange shore town where we knew no one?

Dad said it was his job. But, seriously, although my long blond hair and blue eyes make a lot of people assume I'm a flake, I'm way smarter than that. New Jersey doesn't need another insurance claims adjuster, no matter how great my dad may be at his job. There was more to it. I just didn't know what.

We drove in silence. A lot of people get freaked out by silence. I don't mind it. Dad and I often hang out together without talking. Dad's not a big sharer of thoughts or feelings. At my old school, the teachers always called me shy because I didn't speak much. I don't think I'm shy. I just realized early on that not everything needs to be vocalized. There's a difference between shy and quiet.

“Our street's coming up,” my dad announced. “I'm pretty sure I remember it from last time.” He'd flown out last month to meet his new boss and find us a place to live. I'd stayed behind at Aunt Charlotte's house. We
didn't visit my dad's younger sister much, and after four days of living with her and my crunchy uncle Dexter on their organic avocado farm, I could see why.

Dad slowed the car, raised his aviator sunglasses, and squinted at the map from the rental counter at the airport. Then he turned right onto Seagate Drive. So my new street was called Seagate Drive. . . .

I wrapped my arms around my knees and stole a look out the window. I couldn't help it. My curiosity was too intense.

Old Victorian houses painted pastel colors lined the narrow street. I stared in amazement at a three-story lavender house with powder-blue trim. I'd never seen a house like that before! It was so different from the simple stucco house I'd grown up in.

“Nice street, right?” my dad asked, driving slowly.

“Nice” isn't the word I would have chosen. “What kind of people paint their house pink?” I asked instead, pointing to a pink house on our left.

He let out an exasperated sigh. “Happy people.”

I wanted to reply, to say something nice so I didn't sound like such a brat, but the tingling had started. In my left foot. Always my left foot first.
Go away
, I
prayed.
Oh, please, go away.
My heart beat rapidly.

I knew what the tingling meant.

Three houses down, a group of dark-haired kids played on a circular white-pebbled driveway. Bikes, skateboards, and jump ropes lay scattered about, and shrieking laughter wafted through my closed window. I watched them chase one another, certain they were all related. A girl about my age ran after a younger boy. I wondered what she was like. Then the tingling spread to my right foot and began to creep up my legs.

“Here we are,” my dad announced. He waited nervously for my reaction as our car stopped in front of a weathered gabled house.

I blinked several times, struggling to focus. Willing the feeling to go away, I tried to focus on the details of the house. The sea air had weathered the once-vibrant siding. The painted burnt-orange trim was faded and peeling. A huge covered porch with decorative railings wrapped around the front. The second-floor windows opened to several small walkout balconies. Three large windows protruded from the roof, and an octagonal turret rose along the right side of the house.

The tingling rippled through my entire body. My dad was saying something about Victorian architecture, but I barely heard him. They were here. I couldn't see them yet, but I could sense them. I knew they were here.

So many of them.

I squeezed my eyes tight, hoping to block them out. Then the nausea came over me, and I felt like I might throw up right there. The force of their presence pushed against me. I could feel them reaching for me . . . needing me.

“Sara? Do you feel all right?”

I opened my eyes and shook my head. “Must have been the airplane food,” I managed to croak.

“The house needs some work,” my dad said. “Except for the little storefront, the house has been totally empty for quite a while. But what do you think?”

My breath caught in my throat as they finally came into view. The old, hunched woman rocking in the swing on the porch. The young man in the cap hanging out the dormer window. The angry-looking man with the mustache by the front door. The slim
woman in the long nightgown staring out the bay window. Everyone shimmered and vibrated slightly in the midday sun. My head throbbed.

My father was wrong. The house wasn't empty.

Dead people still lived there.

And I could see them.

The faces shimmered, fading in and out. The man, the woman, the man again. They pulsed like a strobe light, hypnotizing me, making me dizzy.

I gathered my strength and wrenched my gaze away, refocusing my energy. I stared at my red Converse sneakers. I had doodled daisies along the edges in blue ballpoint pen during science class last year. I stared at the swirling inky lines, memorizing the pattern.

“Ready to check it out?” my dad asked, his voice rising with anticipation. I heard him swing open his door.

I wasn't ready.
So many
, I thought. I'd never faced so many. I remained frozen in my seat, my eyes trained on my sneakers.

“Sara, come on,” my father gently coaxed. “It'll be fine, I promise. You and me, kiddo. Together. That's never going to change, no matter where we sleep. Okay?” He rested his hand gently on my shoulder.

I turned my head and met his gaze. His pale blue eyes twinkled when they locked with mine. “Okay, Daddy-o.”

He smiled. It was an old nickname, from years ago. He'd always called me kiddo, so when I was seven I started calling him Daddy-o. I hadn't used it much this past year because he hadn't been around much. Working, I guess, and spending time with his girlfriend, Alexis. Then he'd lost his job, which was hard, and lost Alexis, too, which he thought was hard, but I was secretly glad they broke up. A goldfish had more personality than she did. Maybe Dad and me together again in a new place would be good, I thought.

I pushed open my door and stepped out into New Jersey.

My gaze flickered hesitantly to the house.
Our house.
I exhaled loudly. They were gone. For now, anyway.

Then I stiffened. One remained.

Old and thin, dressed in a gauzy, flowing purple dress, dark hair reaching her shoulders, the woman raised a bony arm and waved. I recoiled as her corpselike arm moved.

Then Dad did the strangest thing. He waved. At her.

I squeezed my eyes to hold back the tidal wave of emotion flooding my body. I wasn't the only one. My dad saw her! He could see the dead people too!

A choked laugh escaped my throat. I couldn't believe it. He saw her!

I see spirits. I have since I was little. Or, at least, now I think they're spirits. In the beginning I wasn't so sure who or what they were. I've never really told anyone about them, even my dad. It's easier not to say anything. If you remain silent, no one judges you or makes fun of you or thinks you're crazy.

I know I'm not crazy.

But I don't know why I can see them.

They've never tried to hurt me or bother me, but they make me feel really sick and scared. At home, I mapped out routes around our neighborhood to avoid them. It worked, too, but I don't know how I'm going to hide in this town. But if Dad sees them too, then together we—

“That's Lady Azura,” my dad said, breaking into my thoughts. “Quite a character, don't you think?”

“Lady Azura?” I repeated slowly. How did he know the spirit's name?

“That's what she calls herself,” he explained. “It's for her business. Like a stage name, I'm guessing. She owns the house and lives on the first floor. I've rented the second and third floors for us.”

The woman wasn't dead, I realized. She was very old, but very much alive. It'd been too much to hope that Dad could see the spirits too. I was the only one.

“What business?” I asked. I hadn't moved forward and the old woman hadn't stopped waving.

He pointed to a sign hanging in the large bay window on the ground floor. Dark purple letters outlined in a brilliant gold announced:
LADY AZURA: PSYCHIC, HEALER, MYSTIC.

“She's a fortune-teller?” My stomach lurched. Seriously? Were we really moving into a house overrun by ghosts that was owned by a fortune-teller?

“So she claims.” The skin around his eyes crinkled. He seemed amused.

“D-do you think she has powers? Real powers?” I whispered.

“Sara, don't let that active imagination of yours go into overdrive,” he cautioned. He switched to the calming tone he uses when I get anxious. “She's just a nice old woman with a kooky hobby. She won't bother us. I think you'll actually like her a lot once you get to know her. And besides, I can't imagine anyone even hires her. Let's go say hello.”

I gazed at Lady Azura again. She was small and frail-looking. In her long, flowing dress she resembled an ancient wood nymph from a book of fairy tales I owned. As I followed my dad up the path and onto the wooden porch, I noticed her wrinkled face was made up heavily. Spiderlike fake eyelashes fanned out from thickly lined lids. Deep crimson lips stood out from the matte powder on her paper-thin skin. Her mahogany hair was obviously dyed. I could see wiry strands of gray creeping in around her hairline.

“Welcome!” she cried. Her voice was huskier and deeper than I'd expected. With bent, arthritic fingers, she grasped my father's hand. “I sensed you would arrive at three, so I came to greet you.” She turned her gaze to
me. Her brown eyes flickered from my long hair to my navy tank top and jean shorts and down my skinny legs to my sneakers. It felt as if she were trying to memorize every detail of my body.

“This is Sara,” she declared, then paused, as if thinking. “I can sense your uncertainty. You have a very strong aura, my dear.”

My eyes widened as my heartbeat quickened.
What does she know?

Lady Azura held my gaze, a half-smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Her frail body did not match the determination in her eyes. She radiated strength.

Uncomfortable, I shifted my eyes toward the porch swing. The shimmery outline of an old woman in a dark dress materialized. She sat in the double swing, a pile of yarn in her lap. Her knitting needles moved mechanically as she stared vacantly past me.

“This is all new for Sara,” Dad announced. “It's a big change for a California girl. But she's happy to be here, aren't you?” He nudged me.

“Totally,” I said. I forced a smile.

“What a beautiful girl you are. The image of your mother,” Lady Azura crooned.

I sucked in my breath. “Y-you know about my mother?” She really has powers, I realized.

“I told her,” Dad interjected quickly, placing a steady hand on my shoulder. “I showed her a picture of your mom.”

“Oh.” I relaxed a bit. I never knew my mother. She died right after giving birth to me. Usually talking about her doesn't bother me. Lately, though, I've been thinking about her a lot.

I've seen so many pictures of my mom, and she's honestly the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. My dad once told me that my mom was so pretty that people stared at her all the time. I love being told I look even a little bit like her, and not just because it's a huge compliment about my looks. It makes me feel close to her.

As my father chatted with Lady Azura about house keys and where to park the car, I watched the transparent old woman knit. Her needles moved, but the scarf didn't seem to grow any longer. Then, just as suddenly, she faded away.

“ . . . so I'm going to show Sara upstairs and get settled a bit,” my dad was saying when I tuned back in.

Leaving Lady Azura on the porch, I followed Dad through the front door and down an entryway painted cranberry red. We climbed a narrow, dark-wood staircase. The carved banister had several broken posts.

The second-floor landing opened into a large room. Browning wallpaper in what was probably once a yellow floral pattern peeled up from the walls. Worn wooden floorboards groaned under our weight. The air was thick and stale. It was obvious no one had been up here for a very long time.

“I know it doesn't look great now, but we're going to fix it up, kiddo.” Dad pointed out the floor and ceiling moldings and the walk-out balcony. “This house has character. If you use a little imagination, you can see what a beauty it must have been a hundred years ago.”

I didn't have to use my imagination. I could feel it.

This had once been a grand sitting room, a place designed for relaxing. A man with a thick mustache shimmered into view. He read a newspaper in a plush, winged armchair by a roaring fireplace. I could sense he hated to be disturbed, especially when he was absorbed in his paper—because to him, this was
his
home.