Read Online Texting the Underworld by Ellen Booraem - Free Book Online

an unstable batch of rocket fuel. “The Lady. You didn’t read that in any book at school. And I know I never told you about her, because your pop would have my hide.”
    â€œGrump, I told you. The banshee’s real. She’s in my room, playing with the zipper on my windbreaker.”
    â€œYou sure she floats and goes invisible and all that? She’s not some smart Irish girl who climbed in the window?”
    â€œI saw the streetlight right through her.”
    â€œHuh.” Grump furrowed his brow at the photographs on the mantelpiece: one of Conor’s dad at age ten, face aglow, showing off his straight-A report card. One of Conor’s gramma. And that other picture, the one of the little girl. Grump threw his ball of glue into the fireplace. “Cripes. Must be my time.”
    â€œWhat time? Whaddaya mean, Grump?”
    Grump looked straight at him, and Conor realized what he’d been trying not to know, ever since last night. “No. It’s not you. It can’t be you.” To his shame, he started to snuffle all over again.
    Grump held out the box of tissues. “Holy macaroni, kiddo—you’d rather it was Glennie? Or your mum or your pop?”
    â€œI d-don’t want it to be anybody.”
    â€œMe neither. But it’s my time if it’s anyone’s, and there’s no arguing with the Lady. I learned that good enough when Jeannie died.”
    No, no, no . . . I am Conor O’Neill, and I’m in 36B Crumlin Street . . .
    The old man gripped Conor’s shoulder. “Kiddo. I know we don’t talk about her much, but I think I gotta tell you about when we lost our Jeannie. Think you can handle it?”
    Conor nodded. He always felt braver with Grump’s hand on his shoulder.
    But Grump took his hand away. Leaning back, he gazed up at the faded picture of a black-haired five-year-old on the mantel. “We were at the playground, see, and my little Jeannie fell off the swings and hit her head. I had my back to her, talking to Kavanagh, so I didn’t see her fall.” He closed his eyes. “But I still see the blood and her just lying there, not even crying.”
    He rubbed a hand over his face and took a shaky breath. “O-o-okay. Somebody calls the ambulance, and your gramma gets there and I’m standing around because I don’t know what to do. And there’s this shriek, like nothing you ever heard. Everybody’s thinking it’s an owl or something that flies because it came from overhead. I look up and a wisp of something white disappears behind the trees.”
    Conor wished he had Grump’s hand on his shoulder again.
    â€œYour gramma goes off with my little Jeannie in the ambulance. I’m leaving the park with Brian—your pop, he was six then—and I see this redheaded girl standing outside the fence. She has on a green dress and a red cape, which she’s using to wipe the tears off her face. She looks me right in the eye. And then she disappears,
poof
. Brian never even noticed her. I thought I’d gone nuts.”
    It sounded like Ashling. “Grump, this is supposed to be Ashling’s first death.”
    â€œMaybe it wasn’t her. But it was somebody. I couldn’t think of nothing else for months after that. Your gramma wanted no part of it, but the first time I got the money together I went to Ireland to find out what I could. And of course I figured out the girl was a banshee. I spent my life waiting for one of ’em to show up again.” He rubbed at the stubble on his chin, deep in thought. “Never heard one when your gramma died. Maybe because she only
married
an O’Neill.”
    â€œDo you think you can get Ashling to tell us who the Death is?” Conor felt a ridiculous surge of hope. “Maybe it was Gramma and the banshee’s just late getting here.”
    Grump gave him a tired smile. “Nice try, kiddo. I don’t