Ghosts, Ghouls, and High School Fools

Ghosts, Ghouls, and High School Fools [2]

"Quinn...Quinn!" Mom nudges me, "Wake up, Quinn, we're here."

I snort as I jolt awake. Rubbing my sleepy eyes, I look out the window. Trees.

"What, are we living in a tree house?"

"No, you goof, the driveway's just really long."

Great.

After another minute of driving over the gravel road, a large, looming house comes into view.

"Oh, Rick, it's beautiful!"

"That thing looks really old!" I blurt out.

"It is," Dad looks at me through the rearview mirror, "It's been standing there for over two hundred years."

Two hundred years?! That pretty much guarantees that there will be a ghost...and that everything will give me a headache the minute I touch it.

"Why'd we have to move into an ancient house?"

"Because it's a very nice house and if we hadn't, the mayor was going to have it destroyed for development," Dad shuts off the car. Mom and Dad get out, popping the trunk and starting to unload. Slowly and suspiciously, I crawl out from the backseat, keeping a firm eye on all windows of the house. Still staring at the house, I walk backwards to a box, pick it up, and follow my parents inside.

The smell of dust and stale air billows around my face when I walk into the living room. Ugh, everything's dirty and there are cobwebs everywhere.

"How long has it been exactly since someone lived here?" I call to a parent.

"A while!" Mom answers.

Rolling my eyes, I move to the stairs. The minute I put a foot on one, my spine tingles and my face warms. Gasping, my eyes dart to the top of the stairs the minute a black shadow darts around the corner. I narrow my eyes and set my box down.

Ascending the stairs, I close my eyes and press my hand to the wall. Memories rush through my head, from the American Revolution, past the Civil War to the present. Many families have lived here...but for the past fifty years...

My vision darkens and screams fill my ears. My hand feels as if it's on fire and I see blood dripping down the walls...burning my hand as it runs...the walls breaking...a wind destroying everything.

All of a sudden, everything whooshes back into focus. Breathing heavily, I wrench away from the wall, clutching my hand to my chest. There were burn marks over the top of it.

"Oh, the poor dear...Lazarus doesn't seem to like her," a voice echoes from down the hall.

Someone sighs, "It won't be long until this family's gone too."

I pretend that I can't hear them, but glance out of the corner of my eye. They hadn't decided to show themselves. Just their voices.

"It's so sad," the first voice, female, sighs. A few seconds later, I feel them disappear.

So far, there are three ghosts here that I know of. Those two, and then some trickster named Lazarus. But...I have a feeling Lazarus is something more than just your average trickster.

I jump when I hear Mom scream.

Running down the stairs, I rush into the kitchen to find Mom standing in the middle of the room, just staring at the cabinets. I stare, too.

All of the doors are open and all the dishes are put away where they belong. I love my mom and all, and she's a really great mom, but she's not Superwoman. There's no way she got all of those dishes in those cabinets in the five minutes we've been here.

Slowly, I walk to a cabinet, peeking around for any shadows.

"Quinn...Quinn, dear, please tell there isn't, uh, anything here," Mom's shaky voice pleads. Yeah, she knows of my freakiness. Supposedly, these abilities skip a couple generations. Aren't I lucky.

"Sorry, Mom, can't do that."

"H-How many?"

"Not sure," I move on to another cabinet, "At least three."

Mom pales and mouths the word three to herself.

"A-Are they dangerous?"

"Umm, one of them, possibly. But he might be more of a prankster. And this," I motion to the cabinets, "isn't very prank-like."

I feel a cool touch on my shoulder. Spinning around, I catch a glimpse of a smiling face, but it's gone in seconds.

"I just thought I'd help."

I jump at the voice.

"Wh-What?!" Mom jumps, too, grabbing my arm.

"A friendly one...female...said she wanted to help," I pry her off.

"Really?"

I shrug, beginning to close all the cabinets. I can feel the cold wood through the cloth of the gloves Mom bought for me; they help keeping the whole I-touch-I-know-everything thing at bay.

Dad walks in, panting, "I heard a scream."

Mom sighs, "Rick, you bought a haunted house."

He just stares at us for a second. Then, he laughs. "Oh, c'mon, guys. Not this again. How many times do I have to tell you two that there are no such things as ghosts?"

Mom and I have tried numerous times to convince Dad that ghosts are in fact real and that most like to hang around me. Needless to say, I get my stubbornness from him.

Mom and I both groan simultaneously and I hit my head on the cabinet.

"Dad. Ghosts are real," I emphasis with a couple more hits to the head.

"No. Quinn, you're being ridiculous and now you've roped your mother into this mess," Dad's face steadily turned red. I didn't need my empathic abilities to know that his patience meter was running empty.

"I didn't-"

"Yes you did! You filled her head with ideas that ghosts exist and that Aaron talks to you!" he grabs my arm, pulling me into the parlor, "You're giving her false hope and it's tearing her to pieces!"

Okay, Dad, no. You've totally twisted around a situation that you know nothing about.

"He did talk to me! She's just upset that he moved on," I rip my arm away, "She wanted me to keep talking to him. But, I told her no. He didn't like being stuck in between."

Oh, now that neck vein is popping. This is about to get bad.

"Mom, I'm going out!" I scramble away from Dad, grabbing the keys to my newly delivered by the movers Honda VFR800 (which is a motorcycle for those who don't know) and hightailing it out the door.

I can hear Dad yelling for me to 'come back here this instant, young lady, or so help me!', but I ignore him and streak out of the driveway.

I don't slow down until I reach the end of our ridiculously long driveway. Once I stop, I prop my bike and sigh heavily. Why can't life ever just be easy? Why couldn't I have an understanding father and a not-dead older brother?

I slam my head repeatedly on the handlebars, but stop when I notice a chill. Oh, God, not another one. Groaning, I lift my head and almost swallow my tongue.

A white, wispy silhouette of a person stands in front of me. I can't really tell any facial features since it's pretty much all smoke.

"Quinn..."

Holy crap!