Read Online Vintage: A Ghost Story by Steve Berman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steve Berman
Tags: Fiction, Horror, Juvenile Fiction, Suicide, Social Issues, Love & Romance, Ghost Stories, Horror & Ghost Stories, Ghosts, Homosexuality, Problem families, Gay teenagers, Runaways, new jersey, Horror stories, Family Problems, Runaway Teenagers, Goth Culture (Subculture)
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him.
I nearly jumped back when Josh came to touch me. “I can barely feel you,” he said softly. “I want to touch you. Deeply.”
I looked into his eyes, twin pieces of blue ice. Afraid to speak, I mouthed the word “please.”
He came nearer and lowered his head until his face brushed mine and it seemed as if winter pressed against my mouth and a cold gust broke through my parted lips. Such kisses break laws.
Then the clouds finally let loose. Water poured down on me, a fresh new chill to my skin. The sound deafened me and, startled, I broke the kiss to find myself alone. Damn him for leaving me alone. I wasn’t even sure he was truly gone, but I didn’t dare call out. I was terrified something else might answer.
I waited as long as I could stand, shivering as the rain fell. More lightning made everything look stark, unreal with every flash. I headed back in the direction of the mausoleums, sure that the wall would be close by. If followed it, I’d eventually reach the gate. Or I could try climbing over the wall. Even if I broke an arm falling, better that than spend another minute with the dead.
But I must have gone in the wrong direction, for all I saw were more old tombstones. Water pooled on the hard earth, refusing to sink in. My feet splashed as I ran first one way and then another.
I finally caught a glimpse of a streetlamp off in the distance and used it like a lighthouse beacon to find a break in the wall. I nearly kissed the asphalt when I made it to the street.
By the time I made it back to my aunt’s I was a drowned rat, soaked to the bone. I was so exhausted my mind ignored the horrors of the evening and just wanted sleep. I left puddles of water on the floor. As I peeled off the wet clothes I promised myself I would never, ever, visit a graveyard again.
Chapter 5
T UESDAY
The interior of Trace’s car smelled strongly of licorice, her favorite candy. I asked if she had spilled a bottle of sambuca. She pointed to the used tea light candle glued to the top of the dashboard.
“Aniseed oil keeps away coughs and colds.” Guiding the steering wheel with her knees, she pulled away from my aunt’s driveway and poured more oil into the empty metal shell. She breathed in deeply. “After last night, I’m not surprised you’re sick.”
I had overslept and felt like shit. I called Malvern to ask if I could have the day off. He told me the best way to cure congestion was bed rest and a warmed glass of rye whiskey with rock candy,
“After last night, I could care less about having a cold. All those ghosts. They could hear me, Trace. I know it. As soon as I opened my mouth, they came after me. What the hell is going on?”
“Just be glad spirits don’t like the rain. They can’t manifest in a downpour.”
67
I bit back a cough. The aniseed didn’t seem to be helping me feel better. I reached for the small brown bottle halffilled with the oil. The tiny label read Distillation of Pimpnella Anisum Seed 13 ml.
“ Pimp inella?” I tried to sound amused but my heart wasn’t in the joke. I uncapped the bottle, bringing it directly under my clogged nose. Immediately the undiluted oil broke through my sinuses not unpleasantly. It reminded me of eating licorice crows with Trace during Labor Day weekend.
“I love that term. Smutty and scientific.” Trace stopped the car on a side street. “We’re here.” Atop a hill squatted an immense house nearly hidden by trees with leaves the color of fire.
“Do tell.”
She started up the walk, a winding series of slate steps, all crumbling at their edges. No one had bothered to sweep away the leaves and debris autumn brought to the lawn.
“So what is this place?”
Trace only winked at me. I was in no mood for theatrics and mysteries. I wanted answers, ones that would let me sleep soundly, ones that would return my life to normal.
We passed the remains of a birdbath. Half the concrete bowl laid on the ground. A raven, his feathers ruffled—I imagined
I nearly jumped back when Josh came to touch me. “I can barely feel you,” he said softly. “I want to touch you. Deeply.”
I looked into his eyes, twin pieces of blue ice. Afraid to speak, I mouthed the word “please.”
He came nearer and lowered his head until his face brushed mine and it seemed as if winter pressed against my mouth and a cold gust broke through my parted lips. Such kisses break laws.
Then the clouds finally let loose. Water poured down on me, a fresh new chill to my skin. The sound deafened me and, startled, I broke the kiss to find myself alone. Damn him for leaving me alone. I wasn’t even sure he was truly gone, but I didn’t dare call out. I was terrified something else might answer.
I waited as long as I could stand, shivering as the rain fell. More lightning made everything look stark, unreal with every flash. I headed back in the direction of the mausoleums, sure that the wall would be close by. If followed it, I’d eventually reach the gate. Or I could try climbing over the wall. Even if I broke an arm falling, better that than spend another minute with the dead.
But I must have gone in the wrong direction, for all I saw were more old tombstones. Water pooled on the hard earth, refusing to sink in. My feet splashed as I ran first one way and then another.
I finally caught a glimpse of a streetlamp off in the distance and used it like a lighthouse beacon to find a break in the wall. I nearly kissed the asphalt when I made it to the street.
By the time I made it back to my aunt’s I was a drowned rat, soaked to the bone. I was so exhausted my mind ignored the horrors of the evening and just wanted sleep. I left puddles of water on the floor. As I peeled off the wet clothes I promised myself I would never, ever, visit a graveyard again.
Chapter 5
T UESDAY
The interior of Trace’s car smelled strongly of licorice, her favorite candy. I asked if she had spilled a bottle of sambuca. She pointed to the used tea light candle glued to the top of the dashboard.
“Aniseed oil keeps away coughs and colds.” Guiding the steering wheel with her knees, she pulled away from my aunt’s driveway and poured more oil into the empty metal shell. She breathed in deeply. “After last night, I’m not surprised you’re sick.”
I had overslept and felt like shit. I called Malvern to ask if I could have the day off. He told me the best way to cure congestion was bed rest and a warmed glass of rye whiskey with rock candy,
“After last night, I could care less about having a cold. All those ghosts. They could hear me, Trace. I know it. As soon as I opened my mouth, they came after me. What the hell is going on?”
“Just be glad spirits don’t like the rain. They can’t manifest in a downpour.”
67
I bit back a cough. The aniseed didn’t seem to be helping me feel better. I reached for the small brown bottle halffilled with the oil. The tiny label read Distillation of Pimpnella Anisum Seed 13 ml.
“ Pimp inella?” I tried to sound amused but my heart wasn’t in the joke. I uncapped the bottle, bringing it directly under my clogged nose. Immediately the undiluted oil broke through my sinuses not unpleasantly. It reminded me of eating licorice crows with Trace during Labor Day weekend.
“I love that term. Smutty and scientific.” Trace stopped the car on a side street. “We’re here.” Atop a hill squatted an immense house nearly hidden by trees with leaves the color of fire.
“Do tell.”
She started up the walk, a winding series of slate steps, all crumbling at their edges. No one had bothered to sweep away the leaves and debris autumn brought to the lawn.
“So what is this place?”
Trace only winked at me. I was in no mood for theatrics and mysteries. I wanted answers, ones that would let me sleep soundly, ones that would return my life to normal.
We passed the remains of a birdbath. Half the concrete bowl laid on the ground. A raven, his feathers ruffled—I imagined
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