Read Online Notes from Ghost Town by Kate Ellison - Free Book Online
Authors: Kate Ellison
Ads: Link
best friend. Not because we said we’d be best friends forever, okay?” His voice turns pleading. “You’re supposed to
help
me. You have to help me. We have to figure this out. Solve it. End it.”
I stare at him, hard. “I can’t help you, Stern. The murderer isn’t free. She’s in jail. She’s my
mother
.”
He shakes his head. “She didn’t do it.”
I’m shivering all over now, furious, full of fire. “Are you insane? There’s
evidence
. They
found
her with you—with your body. It took a long time to deal with it, but now we are, or we’re starting to, and I just need to come to terms with it. Okay?” I blink hard, unable to keep the shake from my voice. “Dad wanted to stay in Oh Susannah, to have Heather come live there. For me. But we couldn’t. People egged our house every day. They painted—they painted horrible things on our door. They made sure we would never, ever forget.” I take a deep breath, try to collect myself.
You’re speaking to a person who isn’t real. He’s not real. He doesn’t exist
. I keep having to remind myself of this. “I’m sorry,” I say, turning to face him. “It’s really strange to fight with a person who isn’t even here. Especially one who wears his Christmas flannel in the middle of summer.”
“It’s always cold where I am,” he says, honestly and simply. There’s a pause, and then he says, “Is any of your mom’s piano stuff here?”
I’m too tired to wonder about the nonsense logic of my hallucinations. “Just a few boxes that I wouldn’t let Dad put into storage,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “Sheet music and notebooks and other random stuff. Why?”
At that, he sweeps past me—more shivers—toward my bedroom door. “Take me to them,” he says, and I hear excitement in his voice. “I’m going to prove to you that I’m real.”
“They’re right here.” I walk toward my closet. The cardboard boxes have been buried here, underneath my shoes and old scarves, since Dad moved all my things from the old house, but I haven’t looked at them once. After I’ve dragged them out of the closet, I stand there just staring at them.
“Open them,” Stern urges.
I tear slowly at the packing tape merging the edges of the box together. Once opened, stacks and stacks of papers are revealed. Now the tears are practically impossible to keep back: this is my mother’s music. I turn away from Stern for a moment, embarrassed. “Well,” I finally get out, “is this what you’re looking for? Sheet music?”
“No. There’s a small black wooden box with white music notes along the sides.”
“I never saw Mom with a box like that.” I reach tentatively into the first cardboard box, rifling through dog-earedpapers slowly, carefully, as though they’ll disintegrate at my touch—like she does now, in my nightmares.
“Try the next box. It’s not in there. Next one,” he continues urging. “C’mon.”
I’ve stopped fighting his voice. I push the first box aside and start on the next. This one’s got a few old photo albums on top, and beneath them: a small black box. White music notes dotted across the sides. A chill creeps along my arms. I’ve never seen the box before. I’m sure of it. So how could I have made it up?
Stern kneels next to me and I shiver as he inches closer. “That’s it,” he says, excitement piped through his voice. “Open it. There’s a little top layer you have to remove, and beneath that, there’re Goetze’s Caramel Creams. She always gave them to me after piano lessons. She knew they were my favorite. And she told me once that she hid them in here so you and your Dad couldn’t get to them.”
Feeling as though my hand belongs to someone else, I lift the lid to find another wooden layer beneath it, as Stern told me there would be. I remove the thin slat of wood slowly from the box: Goetze’s Caramel Creams, layered two-deep inside the small box. I stare at him.
“Jesus …” I feel my pulse rapidly
help
me. You have to help me. We have to figure this out. Solve it. End it.”
I stare at him, hard. “I can’t help you, Stern. The murderer isn’t free. She’s in jail. She’s my
mother
.”
He shakes his head. “She didn’t do it.”
I’m shivering all over now, furious, full of fire. “Are you insane? There’s
evidence
. They
found
her with you—with your body. It took a long time to deal with it, but now we are, or we’re starting to, and I just need to come to terms with it. Okay?” I blink hard, unable to keep the shake from my voice. “Dad wanted to stay in Oh Susannah, to have Heather come live there. For me. But we couldn’t. People egged our house every day. They painted—they painted horrible things on our door. They made sure we would never, ever forget.” I take a deep breath, try to collect myself.
You’re speaking to a person who isn’t real. He’s not real. He doesn’t exist
. I keep having to remind myself of this. “I’m sorry,” I say, turning to face him. “It’s really strange to fight with a person who isn’t even here. Especially one who wears his Christmas flannel in the middle of summer.”
“It’s always cold where I am,” he says, honestly and simply. There’s a pause, and then he says, “Is any of your mom’s piano stuff here?”
I’m too tired to wonder about the nonsense logic of my hallucinations. “Just a few boxes that I wouldn’t let Dad put into storage,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “Sheet music and notebooks and other random stuff. Why?”
At that, he sweeps past me—more shivers—toward my bedroom door. “Take me to them,” he says, and I hear excitement in his voice. “I’m going to prove to you that I’m real.”
“They’re right here.” I walk toward my closet. The cardboard boxes have been buried here, underneath my shoes and old scarves, since Dad moved all my things from the old house, but I haven’t looked at them once. After I’ve dragged them out of the closet, I stand there just staring at them.
“Open them,” Stern urges.
I tear slowly at the packing tape merging the edges of the box together. Once opened, stacks and stacks of papers are revealed. Now the tears are practically impossible to keep back: this is my mother’s music. I turn away from Stern for a moment, embarrassed. “Well,” I finally get out, “is this what you’re looking for? Sheet music?”
“No. There’s a small black wooden box with white music notes along the sides.”
“I never saw Mom with a box like that.” I reach tentatively into the first cardboard box, rifling through dog-earedpapers slowly, carefully, as though they’ll disintegrate at my touch—like she does now, in my nightmares.
“Try the next box. It’s not in there. Next one,” he continues urging. “C’mon.”
I’ve stopped fighting his voice. I push the first box aside and start on the next. This one’s got a few old photo albums on top, and beneath them: a small black box. White music notes dotted across the sides. A chill creeps along my arms. I’ve never seen the box before. I’m sure of it. So how could I have made it up?
Stern kneels next to me and I shiver as he inches closer. “That’s it,” he says, excitement piped through his voice. “Open it. There’s a little top layer you have to remove, and beneath that, there’re Goetze’s Caramel Creams. She always gave them to me after piano lessons. She knew they were my favorite. And she told me once that she hid them in here so you and your Dad couldn’t get to them.”
Feeling as though my hand belongs to someone else, I lift the lid to find another wooden layer beneath it, as Stern told me there would be. I remove the thin slat of wood slowly from the box: Goetze’s Caramel Creams, layered two-deep inside the small box. I stare at him.
“Jesus …” I feel my pulse rapidly
Similar Books
