Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
KENNEDY
Finally being grounded to one place doesn’t feel like I thought it would.
Especially since the place I’ve been rooted to is completely foreign to me.
I have no idea where I am, but my spirit somehow senses that I’m still in Shadow Hills.
I understand the lore behind why ghosts tend to gravitate toward places that are familiar and where they feel safe, but for me, why is that place here?
My mother grew up in Shadow Hills, and if it weren’t for my sister’s budding talents, I probably would have called this place home for more than just twelve years.
I was still a kid when I stood outside our middle school with my sister, hearing the pride in her voice when she told me we were moving to pursue her dance career.
Why is this the place my spirit chose to rest?
I clear my throat and watch Theodore as he hovers aimlessly in front of the large bay window.
Calliope and Simone are still here, unsure whether or not their presence is needed.
They observe anxiously, as if watching two ghosts interact for the first time is the most exciting thing to happen to them all week.
Since no one else is going to talk, I start asking some questions. “Where are we?”
Theodore’s head perks up. “We’re a few miles outside of town,” he says, nervously rubbing his hands together, “in the forest.”
As if confirming his statement, a gust of wind sweeps past the house causing the ice-covered branches to tap noisily against the window.
Simone drops to the floor to sit next to me, tucking her legs to the side and leaning her weight on one arm. She tries to wipe away the layer of dust that’s clung to her pants, but the act is futile. Finally, she asks, “So you said you’re from here?”
“I was born here,” I tell her. “But we moved when I was just twelve.”
Simone frowns and scoots closer. “What do you think brought you here?”
A dejected sigh releases from deep within me. “I really don’t know.” A beat passes as I realize my new set of circumstances. “I’m not stuck here, am I? In this house? Now that I’m tethered, can’t I come and go as I please?”
Simone’s mouth opens and closes, then she looks to Calliope.
The older witch tilts her head, as if we should all know the answer. “Yeah, I mean, just ask him.” She throws out a hand, gesturing to Theodore. “You’re not stuck in this house, are you?”
But then her face falls. She gazes at him with sudden focus, and with a softened tone she says, “Wait a minute. I’ve never seen you in town.”
“When Aidan told us about the house, you acted like you knew who he was,” Simone states.
Calliope’s eyes never leave Theodore’s. “I did. But only because of my grandmother. She told me about the Vanderbilts…but it was a long time ago.”
Theodore shifts under her scrutinizing gaze. Whatever Calliope is about to place her finger on, he already knows it.
Simone glances between the two before shooting her eyes to me, but I only shrug. Whatever twisted history is unfolding here has nothing to do with me.
Unexpectedly, Calliope sucks in a breath and straightens.
In an unnatural pitch she says, “It looks like our job here is done!” She addresses Theodore, but now she won’t look at him.
“You know all about this whole ghost thing, right? You’ve been around for a while.
I think it’s best if we let you two have some space to talk. ”
She takes Simone by the arm and urges her to get to her feet.
Simone groans. “Hey!”
“Come on, Simone. Lessons done for the day,” she grumbles under her breath.
I watch with rapt attention as the two witches rush out of the room. Less than a second later, the front door opens but doesn’t close. Out the front window, I see Calliope scrambling to get off the property and a very confused looking Simone being tugged along in her wake.
Whenever things get too serious, my defense mechanism has always been to turn to humor, so it shouldn’t surprise me that my immediate response to what just happened is to laugh.
I let out a snort, then cover my mouth apologetically. “What the hell was that about?”
Theodore is completely still, his dull gaze staring blankly at the other side of the room where the girls so quickly dismissed themselves. The muscles of his jaw flex and tighten, then instantly go slack. He slowly swivels his head and looks at me. “Not a dratted clue.”
And just like that, his ghostly body disappears.
“Wait!” I cry, reaching out as if I could hold him in place, but the wisps of his form dissipate like smoke.
I look at my own hand and see that my body is fully visible, every detail of my skin clear and tangible, and I realize how little I know about being a ghost.
Dropping me off like a kid at daycare was totally irresponsible on the witches’ parts, but I can’t really blame them. I asked them to perform a seance, and that’s exactly what they did. I never expected them to stick around afterwards and explain all the nuanced details of being dead.
Should I have?
There’s no rule book when it comes to the afterlife, and the closest thing I have to a teacher has now disappeared on me. I need him. He’s the only one who truly understands what I’m experiencing and has the answers I’m looking for.
I get to my feet and call his name. “Theodore!”
The house creaks and groans, but it’s the only response I get.
My Converse press carefully against the floorboards as I take a step.
The floor shifts and settles, but it’s sturdy.
Everything about this house screams haunted.
If I’d known about this place when I was a kid, I would have definitely told everyone there was a ghost here, just to sound cool, even if I didn’t fully believe it.
Now, the setting is so on the nose it’s ironic.
Who would have thought I’d be sharing a haunted house with a ghost, or that I’d be one too.
I explore the first floor of the home, finding a small foyer with a copper coat rack that’s corroded to a shade of green.
A moth-eaten newsboy cap hangs from one of the hooks, and at the base is a stack of TIME Magazines.
The one on top features an illustration of senator Robert Kennedy on the cover and is dated September 16th, 1966.
Pages have been dogeared in almost all the issues.
I pick up the copy with Bobby’s face and thumb to one of the marked pages, but something loose falls onto the floor.
It’s a painting of a city skyline. If I’m not mistaken, it looks like New York City, and it matches perfectly with a photo in the magazine.
Someone in this house was a painter, and they used these magazines as inspiration. I fight with the urge to flip through more of the issues to see if I can find other treasures hidden between the pages, but I need to find Theodore.
I continue into the kitchen. It’s minimal but spacious. Antique Bone China is displayed along shelves on the wall, cast iron pots and pans dangle above the pot-belly stove, and a small island in the middle of the room holds a dirty tea-cup and saucer.
Around the corner is a large wooden staircase with decorative spindles and intricate detailing.
Though the wood is far from pristine, it’s not in bad condition.
Remnants of blue carpet cover the steps leading to the rounded wall of the first landing.
A singular window, the glass opaque in grime, allows zero visibility, but the bright white glare of the sun reflecting the snow outside provides ample lighting.
I creep further up the stairwell, and it creaks under my weight. Wind continues to blow fiercely against the house, causing the old foundation to shift and groan. I’d be worried the place would collapse around me if I weren’t already dead.
The second floor is much like the first—peeling wallpaper and wainscoting covered in mold. The floor feels surprisingly sturdier, which is reassuring, and makes less noise as I walk across it than the one below.
“Theodore?” I whisper this time.
Being in this part of the house feels invasive of his space.
He clearly disappeared because he was uncomfortable—whatever was between him and Calliope must be a sore subject—but I find it rather rude that he’d just dip on me after inviting me to stay in his home.
No tour, no proper introductions, nothing.
I find the master bedroom but dismiss the urge to enter it.
If he is in there, I’ll give him a minute to collect himself.
On the other side of the hall is another set of stairs, these spiraling straight up to the next level.
Blinding sunlight beams down from above as I peer upward, and I have to shield my eyes.
Can ghosts go blind?
I climb to the top as dust mites float around me like fairy dust, and I’m awestruck by what I find. “Whoa…”
It’s a library—a stunning, multi-level library with rows upon rows of old tomes.
An actual rolling ladder is propped against the far wall next to a massive floor to ceiling bay window.
This room is so much more vibrant than the rest of the house, either because of the amount of light or what’s held within.
I’m about to climb the rest of the way up the steps when a gust of wind blows my hair back. If my heart still worked, it’d be beating rapidly inside my chest.
Theodore is right in front of me, appearing as he did before in what could only be described as a spectral, smoky version of a man.
“Why are you up here?” he demands, voice low and firm.
“I-uh…”
He doesn’t wait for me to form a sentence. Instead, he glides even closer, narrowing his eyes. “I allowed you to use this house as a tether. I did not invite you to explore and intrude on my business.”
I take one step down, lowering myself so I’m a few inches away from his glare, but I refuse to cower under his threat. “Oh, so you didn’t sign up to be my babysitter?” I ask, sarcasm dripping from my tone. “So glad we cleared that up.”
One brow lifts, disappearing beneath his shaggy black hair. “No. I was coerced by a friend to open my house to a bunch of supernatural spectators and ended up with a housemate.”
I can’t help but chuckle at how ridiculous it sounds. Lo and behold, I’m not alone, because the tiniest hint of a smirk grows on Theodore’s lips.
I take in the warped shelves, barely holding the weight of what looks like hundreds of years' worth of literature. Most of the titles look too obscure for my taste, but my eye catches something that looks like a leather-bound journal. I go to snatch it up, but Theodore is there first. He’s somehow managed to shift his hand into a physical state while the rest of him remains transparent, and our fingers brush against each other.
A tiny tingling sensation flutters across the top of my hand before I pull away.
Theodore doesn’t seem to react. Did he not feel that?
“That’s personal,” he says, gesturing to the journal. “I’d rather you not.”
I shrug. “No worries.”
He looks odd hovering there with just an incorporeal hand floating in front of him. “How do you do that?” I ask bluntly.
He glances down at his ghostly feet then back up at me. “Do what?”
“Change the way you appear.”
“It takes practice, and a lot of concentration—even more to become fully corporeal as you are now.”
I rub my hands along my arms, savoring the feeling. “I don’t know how I’m doing it.”
“The seance,” he explains. “It will most likely wear off in a few hours. After that, you will return to your spirit form.”
He must see the look of fear on my face, because he adds, “But you won’t disappear. This house truly is your tether now. Kennedy, you don’t have to worry about getting lost anymore.”
I feel the softness of his tone and relax.
“What do I do if I want to be like this again,” I ask, looking down at my body that I can finally feel.
He hesitates, averting his gaze. Several excruciating seconds of silence pass before he finally says, “I guess… I can teach you.”
My stomach flips. “You will?”
Theodore nods, seeming to reach some decision. “Yes. There are ways to move through this plane as a ghost that the living are not capable of." He looks up to meet my eyes. “I will show you.”
Elation floods me, and I instinctively reach out to hug him, but my arms pass right through his chest.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I was a hugger when I was alive.”
An awkward smile teases the corner of his mouth.
I shrug and chuckle softly at myself. “So, where do we begin?”