Chapter 34
I run into Victor at the entrance of the health department the next day.
“Hey, kid,” he calls, lifting a half-empty coffee cup in greeting. “I forgot to tell you, I got a message from—”
“Sheryl,” I finish for him. “Yeah. I went to Rainbow Valley yesterday.”
“Attaboy,” he says with a smile, seemingly unaware that the message was meant to tell me not to go. “You’re always getting things done. How is the pool looking?”
“It’s closed, actually. They drained it over the weekend. Something is wrong with the pipes and filter system.”
He slaps my back, hard. “Lucky you. That makes it easy. No pool means no inspections. You can sit back and relax for a couple weeks.”
We step into the elevator, and I resist the urge to rub my stinging shoulder.
Honestly, I’m glad I missed the message. Going to the club yesterday wasn’t just about checking on the pool; it gave me another chance to see Mrs. Pomers and hear her speak about Xander.
What started as a routine health inspection has become so much more than just making sure the pool is safe for swimmers. It’s about money, my scholarship, breaking a curse, and being the next gay icon for those kids at camp.
Okay. Maybe not an icon. The jury is still out on my iconography. But visibility counts for something, even if it’s not inspiring.
It’s probably for the best Victor remains oblivious to it all. This situation is way beyond the expertise of a guy whose primary skill set consists of poop jokes and overly aggressive back pats.
I clear my throat. “So, does this mean you can start writing my letter?”
He frowns as he fumbles with the keys clipped to his belt. “What letter?”
I bite back a groan.
Not that oblivious.
The elevator dings. Before I can protest, Victor strides out the doors and I’m left to follow him like a dog with its tail between its legs.
Across the sea of gray cubicles, Whitley’s blond hair sticks out among the bald heads.
“Can we talk?” she asks as I take my seat.
“Yeah?” I raise an eyebrow. “What’s up?”
She glances around to scan the nearby desks, exhaling after finding each one unoccupied.
“I’m kind of worried about your situation.” She frowns.
I let out a dry laugh. “Which one?”
“The one with Xander.”
I jerk my head back. “What? Why?”
She hooks the heel of her shoe around the base of her chair and pulls herself closer. “I couldn’t sleep this weekend with the fireworks, so I did a lot of research.”
“What kind of research?”
She holds up her phone. “I found some court notes from Louise and Abigail’s trial. They were in this book I found on the internet called the Pennsylvania Provincial Council’s History. It says they lived and practiced spectral witchcraft in the woods by the Ardor Tree.”
“I know.” I shift in my chair. “So, you’re saying everything checks out? They put a curse on the tree?”
She tilts her head. “Kind of. The thing is, spectral witchcraft means they appeared to people as ghosts.”
I narrow my eyes. “Okay?”
“They also tried to bring other people back as ghosts too.”
“What are you saying?”
She pauses. “I’m afraid Xander might be a ghost brought back from the dead by Louise and Abigail.”
I run a hand down my face. “Xander isn’t a ghost. He’s not dead. He’s just cursed by the tree like me. He’s like a ghost because no one can see him, but that’s not the same thing.”
She bites her lip. “Just listen.”
Scrolling through her phone, she pulls up a page. “There are five main types of spectral ghosts. The first is an orb. You know, those glowing balls of light people catch in photos.”
I shake my head. “That’s obviously not him.”
“Right,” she continues. “Then there’s a funnel ghost, but they’re basically swirling vortices that make a place cold.”
I scoff. “It’s been ninety degrees every day around him. You can scratch that one.”
She lifts a brow. “I already scratched it. I did a lot of research, and I want to walk you through it.”
I nod, folding my arms. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
“We always talk about how boring this place is,” she adds. “Might as well embrace something exciting when it comes along.”
“I don’t know if I would call it exciting.” I take a deep breath, thinking about the possibility of permanent invisibility. I don’t think I’ve wrapped my head around what might happen if we don’t break this curse.
“The third one is an ectoplasm or ectomist.”
I peer over her phone. “That sounds like something we learned about in biology class.”
“It’s basically just a fast-moving cloud of mist.”
“Like that Stephen King movie The Mist? Where everyone goes insane in a grocery store?”
“Exactly like that. We’re lucky Xander isn’t the mist. If Penango got trapped in a supermarket together, half the town wouldn’t make it out.”
“Fair point.”
She takes a breath. “That leaves us with two options. He’s either a poltergeist or an interactive spirit.”
I sit up straighter. “Like the Poltergeist movie?” My fingers shake. “I hate that movie more than The Mist.”
“You’re safe. I don’t think he’s a poltergeist.” She waves it off. “They’re destructive. They slam doors, break dishes, and throw furniture around. Has Xander tossed any pool chairs?”
“No. He’s so friendly.”
She nods. “Which means . . .” She hands me her phone. “He fits this.”
I read:
An interactive ghost is usually of a deceased person, someone you know, a family member, or local figure. These ghosts can make themselves known to you in a variety of ways through speech, touch, and scent. Experts say this type of ghost retains its personality and can feel emotion.
I swallow. “I mean . . . there are some similarities here, but he’s not dead.”
“Keep reading.” she scrolls down.
I read aloud this time:
“Interactive ghosts remain tied to their site for a number of reasons including being killed through a traumatic event such as a murder. The spirit may have died suddenly and not realized he/she died.” I pause and make eye contact with Whitley.
“Or the spirit cannot rest due to unfinished business. These spirits can interact with the living world and cast curses on those around—”
I stop. The words blur together as I lock the phone and slam it face down on the desk. “Okay. I’ve read enough.” My voice is tight.
“I’m not trying to upset you,” Whitley says. “This might be why he disappeared at the pool.”
“There’s so much more going on,” I say. “What about me? The Ardor Tree? And Dara?”
Whitley swallows. “There’s something else.”
I lift my head slowly. “What?”
“I asked Amanda for Robbie’s last name and did some digging on Dara’s case.”
“And?” I grip my chair’s armrests. “How long has she been missing?”
Whitley hesitates. “That’s the thing.” She twirls a finger through her hair and avoids eye contact. “Dara isn’t missing.” My heart stops. “What?”
“She works at a women’s shelter outside Fairmont, West Virginia. I found a video of her online from March. She was talking about the services they offer. There’s another guy in the video with her.”
I stand so fast my chair wheels back into the cubicle wall. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
She shrugs. “Robbie probably didn’t understand what you were asking. Or he lied. Either way, he seemed like a dick. If I were Dara, I’d run away from him too.”
“So, what are you saying?” I throw up my hands.
She sighs. “I trust that you see Xander. But maybe—and I know you don’t want to hear this—he’s the one who cursed you, not those witches from hundreds of years ago. He might be using you for something.”
“Like what?”
“To get back at who killed him.”
“Stop, Whitley.” I pace, shaking my head.
I just opened up to Xander, told him the secret I couldn’t tell anyone. And now Whitley is saying he’s manipulating me? That he’s just another Murray? How many times can I be fooled by a boy before I finally break?
“The Ardor Tree has been around forever,” Whitley goes on. “Don’t you think someone would’ve noticed something strange about it by now?”
I clench my fists. “I disagree.”
“I just don’t want to see you getting hurt. Again.”
“I need to talk to Dara.” I grind my teeth. “If she’s cursed like us, then that will disprove your theory.”
Whitley crosses her arms. “Dara’s not going to have the answer. She’s just going to share normal Penango family drama.”
No.
Nothing about this town is normal.