Haunted Things Read online

  As I meander to the kitchen, listening to her rant, I stop and glance behind me. A chill sweeps over me, and I feel like I'm not alone.

  "Are you sure everything is okay?" Grandma's crackly voice asks for the fifth time.

  "I'm fine," I say distractedly, slowly edging around the outside counters. Rain patters on the roof overhead, and casts shifting shadows on the black and white counter top. I can't see around the fridge from here, but there's something there. A dark, ominous shape, tucked into the other side. I halt my movements and stare. The shadow seems to move.

  "I know your sad voice when I hear it," Grandma continues. "I don't know why you can't be happy. You're young and…" The phone cuts out for a second with an electrical sizzle, but I'm too tense to be relieved.

  I come around the fridge and raise my eyes slowly to the wall. There are two shadows there where there should only be mine.

  Something black rushes by in my peripheral vision, blasting cold air at me. I spin around, and see the door rocking slightly.

  "…it's just so depressing, time to move on," my grandmother's voice snaps back on, startling me. I almost drop the phone but grip it harder.

  "I'll talk to you later, okay?" I tell her gently. My shadow on the wall is alone now.

  _________________

  Later, I'm up in my room working my way through my mountain of boxes. I unpack the rest of my clothes and slide each piece on hangers. I open the flaps on the next box and lift out bundles wrapped in newspaper. I set them on my dresser and gently unfold them. Two frames with smiling teddy bears that hold photos of my mom and me. I've had them for as long as I can remember.

  I prop the frames up and step back, then run my finger gingerly over my mother's young, carefree face. She had freckles and crooked teeth. She was beautiful.

  A hard lump forms in my throat and I swallow it away. I flip the pictures down so they're lying on their faces. Not yet. I can't look at her every day and function.

  Life was split into before and after—before, when mom was here and things were normal, and after—where dad floats through life like a shadow and I hide.

  The door creaks and I look up as my cat, Ichigo, paws into the room. He sits down, assessing the bed, and then springs onto the mattress.

  "Hi, buddy," I say softly, stroking his head as he butts his head into my fingers. I open the dresser, getting a whiff of patchouli, and stuff the rest of the contents of the current box inside.

  The cat hops off the bed and shuffles to the wall, pawing at the baseboard and mewing.

  "What are you doing, butt-head?" I ask as I walk over to him and scoop him up. "I hope you're not hearing mice." He meows in protest and I set him back on the bed, then investigate the bottom of the wall. There's a small, square door in the wood I never noticed before. I stick my nails in the groove on the right side and grip it until the door comes free.

  Dust flies out and I cough, waving my hand in front of my face. The smell of mildew hits my nose with something sour underneath it. Behind the door is a short, narrow storage space surrounded by yellow insulation. Two cardboard boxes covered in thick gray dust are crammed into the space, and I slide them out and undo the flaps on the first one.

  There are CDs inside—My Chemical Romance, Alkaline Trio, and others—next to an MP3 player with busted headphones. Musical taste I can appreciate. A combo radio/CD player that was probably the tits fifteen years ago. I pull the CDs and the radio out and set them on the dresser, then return to the boxes. I find well-worn t-shirts, rolling papers, composition books with doodling all over the covers and song lyrics written inside in tiny, neat handwriting. It looks like the handwriting is the same as the phrase on the window seat. There's other junk in the boxes but I put everything back for now and slide them back into their hiding spot.

  Who would have left all of their stuff here? A chill runs down my spine. Someone who ran away in a hurry. Someone like Seth Moss, the one who shot his family.

  Ichigo hisses and jumps to his feet on the bed, his tail flicking back and forth. He's staring at the doorway.

  "What's wrong, buddy?" I murmur, following his sight line. There's nothing but shadows there.

  He ignores me, still on high alert, his back fur bristling. The cat hisses and skitters off of the bed, bolting out the door and down the stairs. A sudden chill comes over the room.

  Strange. He's usually not scared of anything. I pause at the top of the stairs and listen. Mournful, acoustic guitar music carries across the air again from outside. I frown, go to the window and push it open, looking outside. For a moment, I think I see a figure on the side of the house, but when I stick my neck out for a better view, there's no one there.

  CHAPTER 5

  "It turns out I'm going to be having quite a few long nights," my Dad tells me apologetically over dinner.

  The next night, he tells me he won't be home until after dark. It's been raining steadily outside all day. I have my window cracked to air the dust out of my room. I plug the radio I found in the storage space in and switch it to FM, scrolling through noisy static. I fiddle with the antenna but I can't get any stations.

  I pop in the Alkaline Trio CD instead and hop on the bed as I unfold the liner notes. Thunder rolls outside as the rain starts to pick up. I have some of the other items from the hidden boxes out on the bed—books of poetry, rusting bottle caps in a plastic bag, and a green stone frog with glass eyes. Little scraps of a life.

  I wonder if all this stuff really did belong to a murderer. I feel guilty for pawing through his things but unable to stop myself. I wonder vaguely what I would leave behind if I died. Not much, but maybe it would be interesting to someone who had never met me, since they could imagine who I was.

  I dig out my laptop from beside my bed and pull up Google. I type Moss Murders, Illinois in the search bar. It has its own Wikipedia page, which shows a picture of my house with police tape surrounding it. A shudder ripples through me and I pluck at my bottom lip nervously with my fingers.

  The Murder of the Moss Family - On July 2nd, 2004, police were dispatched to 225 Oak Street. The call was anonymous and traced to a pay phone nearby. Three members of the same family were found murdered. The victims were Brian Moss (42), Jenny Moss (40), and their daughter, Lauren (19). All of the victims had been shot with a .35 caliber rifle. The youngest Moss child, Aaron (8), was away at summer camp. The older son, Seth (18), was not on the property and further searching found no trace of him. Evidence suggested that Seth Moss carried out the killings himself and disappeared.

  Aaron. Aaron Moss. My jaw drops. Holy crap, the guy I met who said he lived here before. The timing is right, he would be my age. I cup my hand over my surprised mouth. So he was part of the Moss family, the only survivor. Why didn't he say anything?

  I haven't seen him since that first day, but he keeps creeping into my thoughts. The imagined kiss and his dark intensity. And now I know just how troubled his past is.

  There isn't much more information, just that the murders remain technically unsolved. I wish there was a picture, of Seth or any of them, even though I don't know why. Maybe to make it seem more real.

  A zap of lightning lights up the room, and thunder booms loudly outside. I shut the laptop down and stow it on my bedside table, deciding I've read enough spooky things for now. Being alone in the house with a dark and gloomy storm outside is enough for me.

  I become absorbed in my homework as the storm picks up out. I can feel the electricity on my skin as more lightning flickers. The relentless wind rattles the windows back and forth.

  As I'm finishing up my Bio homework, I hear a loud crash from downstairs. My heartbeat speeds up. I shut the book and step off the bed toward the door. I stand at the top of the stairwell and listen. All I hear is the drumming of rain on my roof and tree branches scratching the window.

  I turn around and another crash sounds from downstairs. I hurry to the second floor, but I'm hesitant as I creep down the stairs to the ground level. The metallic taste of
fear fills my mouth. The low ceiling blocks my view until I reach the middle stair. The front door is wide open, and I watch as the wind sucks it shut again. I blow out a sigh of relief and go the the door, fighting against the oncoming wind to push it shut. I throw the lock and lean back against the wood, relieved.

  My feet skid on the rain-soaked floor and I look down. A trail of muddy footprints leads further into the house. My heart picks back up, hammering forcefully in my ribcage. I push my hair back from my sweaty forehead as I follow the prints into the dining room. There's no sign of anyone, but I keep the lights off. Suddenly, something white whooshes by me in the next room. An eerie, stifled giggle peppers the air.

  Footsteps scuttle across the ceiling above my head. I swallow hard. That definitely wasn't the wind.

  I don't have my phone on me, and I don't know any of the neighbors. I don't just want to run into the night. I run back to the front room and rip open the hall closet, searching the messy contents. The first thing my hand finds is an old wooden baseball bat.

  The second I reach the top of the stairs, the lights flicker and go out. Lightning illuminates the hall as I creep down it, gripping the baseball bat tightly. I swallow hard as thunder rumbles around me.

  The lightning flashes again, and I make out a male figure at the end of the hall. The weakness of fear rushes over me, but I edge forward. As lightning strikes again, the figure is gone. I advance down the hallway and back to my room.

  As soon as I enter the attic, the radio starts to blare a Bon Jovi song. I drop the bat and cover my ears, as I look around for the culprit, but see no one. I rip open the doors to the closet and poke under my bed, but the room is empty. Static starts to break through on the radio, and I stalk over, yank the cord out of the wall, and wrap it around the radio. I chuck it in the back of my closet.

  The window is still cracked, and the howling wind brings a dusting of rain inside. I go to shut it, peering outside suspiciously. An old trellis structure runs up just beside the window, the corpses of old vines wound around it. But I see no sign it's been used. This house is getting the better of me, I'm getting paranoid. Maybe I imagined it all.

  I retrieve the bat, just in case, and descend the stairs two at a time back down. I force open each door with the tip of the bat as I pass.

  The stairs squeak in front of me and I slowly creep toward them, clutching the bat with sweat-soaked palms. I turn the corner, and come face to face with a hideous grimacing wraith. Blood drips down her face, running from a black bullet hole over her eye. She leers at me with blood-coated teeth.

  I shriek and swing the bat in an arc toward her. She tilts her torso backward, avoiding my blows, pressing her chin into her chest. I blink my eyes shut, trying to calm down enough to act, and when I open them, she's gone.

  I'm getting out of this house.

  I run down the stairs, my goal being the exit. But three figures block my way at the bottom—the girl with the bullet hole, and another man and woman, both of them bloody, with green, rotting skin. Lauren and her parents. Fear shoots through my heart like a flaming arrow and I almost trip, reaching out for the banister. It wobbles in my hand and throws me off balance, and I tumble down the remaining stairs right toward the ghosts.

  CHAPTER 6

  Icy cold water streams over my head and drenches my skin, soaking my hair and clothes. I let out a shriek. A bright flash blinds me, and when I blink I see an iPhone camera in my face. The three figures burst into raucous laughter, doubling over and smiling at each other. The lights zap back on, and I see that the ghosts are actually Carla and her two friends, Paul and Lotte, from school, dressed up as the Mosses.

  "Gotcha," Carla says, stowing the iPhone in her pocket. Paul dangles the empty water bucket from his wrist.

  "What the hell?" I mutter. I banged my head hard on the way down, and I sit up, rubbing the bruise. I stand up and shake water off of my arms, smoothing my drenched hair away from my face.

  "I can't believe you're so gullible," Lotte says in between giggles. "You totally bought it."

  "Why did you do this?" I ask, glancing between the three of them.

  "Boredom." Carla shrugs. "We smoked my stash and mom's medicine cabinet was empty. And the Halloween store was having a sale." She peels the rubber bullet hole from her head and dangles it in front of me. "You're pretty entertaining when you're peeing your pants."

  "I didn't pee my pants," I snap. I feel my cheeks flush hot with embarrassment, and I'm on the verge of sobbing. I'm horrified, not wanting them to see my tears.

  Paul pulls off his brown wig, revealing his blond, spiky hair, tied with the same pink bandanna as usual. He wanders over to the living room and glances around at our furniture, picking up a paisley throw pillow and dropping it with a scowl. "Tacky. Is your mom blind or did she hire a crackhead to decorate?"

  I clench my fists together. The tears are definitely going to come now. I feel the telltale prickle as my eyes begin to water.

  The lights flicker again, electricity hissing, and the intruders glance toward the glass globe in the foyer.

  "This place is such a shit hole," Carla mutters. "They should have just torn it down." The wind howls in response, making branches scratch against the house.

  "The storm's getting bad," Lotte says, casting nervous glances out the window.

  The lights die, drenching the room in blackness. Lotte screams shrilly. A black, unearthly figure floats the stairs, and our heads turn toward it. Red light illuminates its demonic face. It moves noiselessly in our direction, fixing its hateful glare on Carla.

  "Get out of this house…now…" the figure intones. The door slams open again by itself and Carla shrieks this time, her hands flying up to her face. A quick sense of triumph pierces through my fear—she's genuinely scared. The windows rattle loudly, this time by more than the wind, and Paul and the girls run toward the exit. I'm frozen in my spot by the banister as the figure glides toward me. Cold air kisses my face, caressing my cheeks. I hear Carla and the others run into the night, and the door slams. I gulp hard, feeling my throat constrict, choking off my air supply.

  The lights blink on and I see Aaron Moss's face in front of mine. His glowering expression softens and he halts in place, then cracks a smile. I let out a deep breath and feel myself going faint. I reach out and grab the banister so that I don't crash.

  "Are you okay?" he asks, the smile smoothing away. He frowns in concern, but makes no move to come closer.

  "What are you doing in my house?" I growl. I have to direct my anger at someone. At least I don't feel like crying anymore.

  "I'm sorry, Ash." His voice is soothing, even when I don't want it to be. "I just didn't want them messing with you anymore. I saw them dump that water on you. I had to think fast." He sets something down on the stairs and laughs gently, pleased with himself. "They were scared shitless."

  Headlights light up the front window. I turn and see my father's car roll into the driveway. "My dad's home."

  Aaron nods, then brushes past me and jogs around toward the back of the house. "I've got to go."

  "Wait, Aaron!" I suddenly have no many questions. He turns his head back around, messy hair grazing his eyes, but he doesn't stop.

  "I don't want his first time meeting me to be alone with his daughter," he says, his expression masked in secrecy. "Too much to explain."

  He disappears into the kitchen just as my dad steps up the walk and opens the door.

  I explain what happened as logically as I can, but he seems to think that I'm making it up. He's really tired and I give up on trying to convince him as he stumbles to his room. He doesn't need anything else to worry about.

  I clean the wet floor and the footprints that the others left behind. I find a window in the living room cracked. So that's how they got inside in the first place. I make sure to lock it this time.

  I don't know how Aaron got into the house, and I don't know how I feel about him coming to my rescue. Just the thought of that demonic image he created gi
ves me shivers.

  I head upstairs, and nearly trip over something. It's a black flashlight with a red bulb—it must have been what Aaron used to make himself look scary. I recoil at the memory. Dragging the bat with me, I stow it in the closet of the pink room along with the flashlight. My old bed frame and dresser are in here now. I sit on the bed and stare out the window, and finally let a few tears out until I'm relaxed enough to go upstairs. I don't know that I'll ever get used to this place, to its creaks and sighs and mysteries.

  As I'm lying in bed, there's one detail of the fake haunting that nags me. I smash my face into the pillow and shut my eyes, but I can't stop thinking about it.

  The radio, the one I couldn't get any stations on, blaring music all by itself. Right before I finally drift off, I think I hear static from the closet.

  CHAPTER 7

  Somebody's been busy at my locker the next day. There are newspaper headlines pasted all over the front.

  Tragedy in a small town, family slaughtered.

  Son wanted for questioning in shooting death of parents and sister.

  Bloodbath site a nuisance for neighbors as police, gawkers swarm.

  And a hideously unflattering photo of me from last night, mid-scream, with my eyes half-open and my tonsils showing, water streaming down my face. I crumple up the photo and strip off the gray bits of paper with my nails. I toss them in the trashcan, hoping no one else saw. I was hoping she had gotten her fill with me last night, but no luck.

  I find Carla and her friends clustered in the parking lot, indiscreetly passing around a joint. They giggle and point at me as I cross traffic toward them. The others scatter and Carla stubs out the roach in a mint box and jams it into her purse.

  "What's with all the practical jokes?" I ask her caustically, my temper bubbling below the surface.