The Ghost Files

Chapter Two

 "Take me home. Now."

Jake and Tommy stop their sports talk mid-sentence and stare at me.

"It's only been two ho–" Jake shuts up when he no doubt sees the shock, worry, and anger in my expression.

It's wrong for Sally to end up murdered and I could care less if Jake's upset about leaving early.  I gotta get home.

"Mattie..."

"Now, Jake," I cut him off. "You either drive me home or I'm walking." He frowns and I stalk away. I hear his sigh behind me and then a muffled "Sorry," before he hurries to catch up.

"What's going on?" he demands.

"I just gotta get home." No way can I say that I've just seen my foster sister's ghost, bound and gagged. My face is stone; I suspect my eyes are, too.

"Fine," he sighs.  "I'll drive you."

Yeah, he's irritated. Too bad. He's nice and all and I really like him, but he'd best not be thinking I owe him anything. If he insists, he'll learn Mattie-move number 1: Hit first, ask questions later. But when I wanna go, I just go. He'll deal or move on.

The ride is tense and I can feel Jake's stare. He's no doubt sure I've gone nuts... but I refuse to explain. I turn my attention to the more serious problem —what will I do at home? It's not like I can say, "Hey, I just saw Sally's ghost!" I have to do something.

As we pull up, the house is quiet and dark. No lights, no movement. Nobody knows Sally's gone, maybe? Not good. I don't even give Jake time to stop the car before I'm out and running up the porch steps, yelling, "I'll call you tomorrow!" I guess he drives away, but don't bother turning around to find out.

I fumble my keys, but finally open the front door.  My feet pound up the stairs, thumping in concert with the rapid beating of my heart.

"MRS. OLSON!" I bellow and burst into Sally's room. The door bounces off the wall.

The bed is rumpled, like she's just gotten up to go to the bathroom or the kitchen for a snack. Her shoes lay haphazardly in front of the bed, and her robe is in a puddle on the bedspread. The lamp is still on. Sally always sleeps with it on so that she'll know where she is when she wakes up and that she's safe. But not this time.

Where is she? I rip open the closet door, half expecting to see her there. There's no way she could have gotten far. I'd only been gone a little over two hours. I circle the room looking for anything to tell me where she is. Nothing is out of place here.  I want to scream.

"What is it?" Mrs. Olson staggers into the room, wiping sleep from her eyes and blinking like an owl.

"Where's Sally?" I demand; my voice is a little too shrill.  

"She went to a party," Mrs. Olson yawns and pulls muddy brown hair out of its elastic band. "Why all the fuss, Mattie? She said she was going to meet you."

"No way. She wasn't invited, and had no way to get there, even if she was crashing it." My mind flitted anxiously. Sally had been wearing her night clothes! That means whatever happened to her started here. "We have to call the police," I mumble, still trying to see something in the room that could give me a clue.

"The police?" Mrs. Olson groans. "Mattie, she's at a party. Why would we call the police?"

"Because I already told you she wasn't at the party!" I shout.

Mrs. Olson stares at me like I sprouted horns. "If she's not home in a couple hours, then we'll call the police, honey. You need to calm down."

I growl through my teeth. Why won't she listen to me?  Just because I don't have the magical number eighteen attached to me doesn't mean I don't know what I'm talking about! Arghhhh.

Mrs. Olson is shaking her head at me and I throw up my hands. To heck with this. I stomp down the stairs and pick up the phone.

"Mathilda Louise Hathaway, just what do you think you're doing?" She thuds down the steps right behind me.

"I'm calling the cops since you won't."

She takes the phone from me. "No you won't call the police. Sally went to a party and whether you saw her there or not, that is where she is. I am sure she'll be home soon."

"Really? So when she doesn't come home and we end up calling the cops, what are you gonna say when they ask you, why didn't you call sooner?" I spit out. "You're supposed to be taking care of us!"

Mrs. Olson's pale gray eyes turn steely. That hit a nerve.

"I do take care of you—better than most, Mattie. You have no right to say that."

"Then call the cops! She's not at the party! She's dressed in her night clothes for crying out loud!"

Mrs. Olson's eyes turn sharper. "I thought you said you didn't see her, Mattie. How do you know what she's wearing?"

Fudgepops, I shouldn't have said that. Think fast, Mattie-girl. "Because... when I left, she had on her nightshirt and her fluffy gorilla house shoes. She was getting ready for bed."

"Then she changed her mind," Mrs. Olson replies. "Sally told Larry she was going to a party."

Wait, Mr. Olson said Sally went to the party? And just where is he now? Why isn't he out here to see what the shouting's about? Everybody else is up; doors are opening and closing upstairs. "Where's Mr. Olson?"

"He got called into work." Mrs. Olson runs a hand through her hair again. "Mattie, I promise you if she's not home in a few hours, we'll call the police. Can you wait that long?"

"Okay," I hold back a sigh. She really believes Sally is at the party. Sally's already dead so technically finding her won't help, but I don't want her to be just another kid marked as a runaway. She deserves better than that. She deserves justice.

Mrs. Olson smiles tiredly at me. "Go fix yourself a cup of tea, dear. There are plenty of cold-cuts in the fridge if you want a sandwich." She heads back upstairs, cordless phone in hand.

Great... what to do now? There's only one thing to do — the one thing I swore I'd never do. I can talk to the dead kid in the bathroom. Sally can't talk even if she shows up; her mouth is taped over, but the little girl in the bathroom can.

I so don't want to do this, but it's not about me, it's about Sally.

I steel myself and head towards the bathroom. 

Time to talk to the dead kid.