Won't Let Go Read online

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  Won’t Let Go

  Avery Olive

  ISBN: 978-1-939173-67-6

  E-ISBN: 978-1-939173-69-0

  © Copyright Alisha Souillet 2013. All rights reserved

  Cover Art: Taria Reed

  Editor: Judy Roth

  Layout/Typesetting: jimandzetta.com

  Crescent Moon Press

  1385 Highway 35

  Box 269

  Middletown, NJ 07748

  Ebooks/Books are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Crescent Moon Press electronic publication/print publication: December 2013 www.crescentmoonpress.com

  "When you find yourself stuck in the present, maybe it's because something in your past isn't ready to let you go."

  Avery Olive

  Chapter One

  My eyes grow wide as a house comes into view at the top of the hill.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan from the passenger seat of my parents’ old man sedan.

  “What? What is it, baby?” Mom takes a hand off the steering wheel and squeezes my knee.

  “This is like a house from the Addams Family or something.” I motion towards the dark wooden structure standing tall with peaks and warped shingles. A balcony sags under rotting wood, and the wrap around veranda doesn’t wrap around anymore. There are chunks of board and railing missing, leaving gaps between the wood. Suddenly, the Monopoly houses we passed on the way here don’t look so...boring and sad.

  Dad speaks up from the back seat, “It’s got a lot of character, this one does.”

  Mom slows the car to a stop next to a shiny, clean red compact car, adding, “It just needs a little love, is all.”

  Or to be bulldozed to the ground, I think.

  I stare up at the decrepit, spooky looking house. Right away I am annoyed, feeling cheated at the promise of a better life, better opportunities and an even nicer, bigger bedroom—if that’s even possible. Somehow, I don’t see how this dump, overrun with weeds and grass is better.

  My mom’s voice rings inside my head. She’d promised a new beginning, a clean slate. Dad had to move across the country just to become an even better doctor, with an even better position within the hierarchy.

  But this was also a chance for me to—how did she once put it — get back on the right track. As if my train had derailed and I had become a vision of myself I could no longer agree with. I know she’s right, though. I’ve made some mistakes, but who hasn’t? If I didn’t believe this was truly for Dad’s new job, I’d assume the move was to take me away from my friends so that my family and I could work on our strained relationship. Isn’t that what parents do these days? Uproot children when they become terrible delinquents, just to prove they’re still the boss?

  Truth is, I liked my old beginning better. The one where I had the best friends and boyfriend in the world—who all thought a long distance thing—long being seventeen hours apart—wouldn’t work out.

  I suppose it makes sense. We’ve only been friends for years, so of course we can’t keep in touch through e-mail and texts. Nimble fingers and stupid brains make it hard, I’m sure. Maybe things are better off this way.

  My parents exit the car. Gravel crunches beneath their steps as they make their way up to the house. I sit in the passenger seat with my arms folded tightly across my chest, my jaw set and my lips in a firm line.

  Mom turns around and motions for me to come, waving her hand and smiling as she puts a foot onto the first step. Just as I relent, sliding out of the passenger seat, a large crunch and snap fills the silent air. Mom grabs the railing for support as her foot pushes through the wooden step. Dad is at her side supporting her, in case the stairs give way completely and she falls right through. However, to my surprise they both start laughing. It’s as if the steps crumbling beneath them is the funniest thing in the world.

  Not funny.

  It takes a few calming breaths before I’m able to try and embrace the changes that have happened in my life. But my feet feel heavy. Apparently they aren’t quite as willing as the rest of me to move forward—both towards the house and this new life. It doesn’t help that I could be putting my life in danger by falling through the steps, or worse, an entire floor. As my feet finally find the courage to move forward, the giant black front door creaks open.

  A round, plump head pokes out. “I thought I heard a car and voices out here.” A man pushes the door the rest of the way open and takes what looks to me like a few calculated steps onto the veranda.

  Mr. Realtor is wearing a crisp tan business suit, stark white shirt and a yellow tie. His body is just as round as his brown hair covered head. He’s short and the suit stretches across his bulging beer belly, buttons ready to pop off any second.

  “Might want to watch your step. She’s sturdy in most places, but the veranda could use some supports.” He speaks to my parents, who are still chuckling at Mom’s brush with death. Mr. Realtor then extends his hand, as all the while I, at a snail’s pace, make my way closer to the death trap. “I’m Mr. Sanders. Glad to finally meet you Dr. Stone. Mrs. Stone,” he says, grasping Dad’s hand first, and then Mom’s.

  “Please call me Charles,” Dad says.

  “Right, sorry. Dr. Charles.”

  “Just...Charles. No need for the Doctor. I’m not at work.” He smiles, touches Mom on the shoulder and adds, “This little thing here is Sylvia.” And with a nod over his shoulder in my direction he says, “And that’s Alexia.”

  I give a curt nod and small smile. Stepping on the farthest point of the stair from the new hole, I grasp the railing. Just as my foot reaches the second step, something catches my eye.

  Up towards the sky, I scan the house, glimpsing a grimy window. A sheer curtain rustles. Squinting against the bright light of the sun, I see the curtain move again. This time a shadow, tall and lean, passes over the space.

  Instantly, cool air brushes my neck, hairs stand up on end and a creepy feeling tickles my spine. Shaking off the odd sensation, I look back to the window. The curtain hangs still and no shadow moves. I imagined the whole thing. Nothing there at all.

  “Well, nice to meet you all. Please, please come in and check out your new home.”

  Mr. Realtor holds the door open as we shuffle into the foyer. I want to say I’m awed, but I’m not. From this point all I can see are neat piles of boxes with Mom’s messy scrawl on the sides. It’s really hard to get the full picture.

  “The movers were here this morning. We tried to leave things organized. And missus also tidied up the kitchen and left a casserole in the fridge.” He pauses to wipe beads of sweat off his neck. “The rest of the house still needs a good once over.”

  The house itself feels about ten degrees warmer than outside. My black T-shirt is already clinging to my dampened skin. I’m guessing central air is a luxury I no longer have. Add that to the growing list of reasons why I hate this new life already.

  Only a second later I curse under my breath, knowing I promised myself and my mother I’d make the most of this new change. I can handle letting myself down, but her, on the other hand, not so much. I’ve sort of had my fill of that in the past. Letting her down, that is.

&nbs
p; Mom gazes around. “Oh Charles, look at this place! Isn’t it wonderful?” Both her face and voice are giddy with excitement. Mom points out a huge stone fireplace, tall ceilings, saying something about how a little fresh paint will brighten up the room.

  Speaking of...“So where’s my room?” I ask, trying to hide the small amount of excitement bubbling beneath the surface.

  “Oh honey. If the pictures do it justice, you’ll love it!” Mom smiles.

  Mr. Realtor coughs, rubbing his neck again. “It’s up the stairs. End of the hall.”

  Wasting no time, but still being vigilant, I race up the stairs and down the hall. If the rest of the house is any indication, the room will be a bit of a disappointment, but I cling to the hope that maybe I'm wrong. Grasping the crystal doorknob, I turn it and fling myself into my new room.

  I gasp, hand flying to my mouth.

  It’s not the drab sheers on the window, my four-poster bed leaning up against a wall, or the expanse of the room—filled with boxes—that’s caught my attention.

  No. That would be simple. Easy.

  Instead I find myself staring at the back of a—person. It’s a he, tall and lean, wearing dark wash jeans and a gray T-shirt, and he’s standing right smack dab in the center of the space. His hair is short and sandy blond. Just as I’m about to speak, his head tilts to the right, and slowly, ever so slowly, he glances over his shoulder.

  Stormy blue eyes narrow at me as a small grin plays on his lips.

  Just when I think I’ve lost my mind—that a stranger in my house is bad enough—the person dissolves into a cloud of dust, swirling in the rays of sunlight brought in from the window until no trace is left.

  I scream. A fierce and terrified, bone-chilling scream that echoes through the room. It’s so loud. The air in my lungs is still expelling when faintly I hear the thud of footfalls frantically running up the stairs towards me.

  Chapter Two

  My parents and Mr. Realtor burst through the door.

  But it’s Dad’s voice that booms above everything else. “What! What is it honey?” He twirls around, looking for a knife-toting killer.

  Trembling, I stare blankly at the space where the person—the guy—just was. Mom places a comforting arm around my shoulder, forcing me to relax and slump against her. “I—I …” The words don’t come. I want to say I saw him, that a person was in my room, but the words are trapped in my throat. It’s as if when I speak them, I’ll just sound crazy. Because it is crazy, impossible, a trick of the light, I swear.

  And then my mom says, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, baby. What’s got you so scared? You’re shaking like a leaf.”

  A ghost. If only I could tell her that’s what I’m sure I really saw.

  My voice croaks, “A-a spider. There was this huge black spider.”

  “Well, a bug is no reason to scream to high heaven. That’s just crazy. I thought you were dying up here.” Dad’s voice is gruff. Serious. Then he lets out a breath and walks about the room, fingers running along the seams of the walls, checking inside the closet and along the windowsills. “We’ll get some insect killer or something.” He sighs again and smiles. “I don’t see any more big bad bugs. I’m sure you’re safe.” Then under his breath, he mutters, “A spider. Good God.”

  Mr. Realtor speaks up. I’d nearly forgotten he was still here. “Like I said before, the house needs a good once over. It’s been vacant for a few years.”

  Only a few years? Here, I was thinking decades.

  Pressing me tightly to her, Mom says, “Honey, we’ll give this place a good dustin’ and moppin’ tomorrow. We’ll have it clean and ready for a fresh coat of paint—your choice—in no time. I promise.”

  This calms me only slightly. I still can’t forget what I saw. There wasn’t a spider, big and black or otherwise. It was a guy. And I watched him disappear into thin air before my eyes. What was he doing here? Was it really a ghost?

  I’m not sure this was the sort of “clean slate” I had in mind. I’d really rather not add a whopping amount of crazy to my new life.

  When the final papers on the deed to the house were signed, keys handed over and one last, “anything you need Dr. Charles, just give me a ring,” Mr. Realtor left, his plump, round body stuffed into his little red car.

  That’s when the real fun started, or so Mom said. “Now we get to clean up, unpack and make this our new, fabulous home.”

  The movers had done a good job. I suppose that’s what they’re paid for. Each labelled box was in the appropriate room. Mom and I started unpacking the necessities, while Dad ran around looking for tools and assembling beds.

  Having a bed, in my mind, is the most important thing. There ain’t no way I’d sleep on the floor of this place. Not until some heavy disinfectant has done its work, sanitizing the floor and taking away the dust and grime.

  Reaching into a box, Mom pulls out various cleaning supplies. “Are you ready to start your new school next week? Spring break’s almost over and I know it’ll be tough, but you have a chance to make some friends, some nice friends here.”

  The box I'm unpacking is stuffed to the brim, bulging with linens. “I had nice friends back home.”

  “No.” She pulls out the illustrious bottle of disinfectant.

  I grab the bottle from her. Me and you will be getting to know each other very well.

  Mom adds, “You had friends. Nice just isn’t the word I’d use to describe them.”

  So we might have gotten into a bit of trouble, maybe some drinks—the alcoholic kind—were involved a few times. But, that’s hardly cause to say my friends weren’t nice. I mean up until the move, they always had my back. As a growing teenager, well it’s only normal to experiment. Granted that three A.M. ride to the police station for destruction of property—it was only a little spray paint—and the building looked so much prettier—wasn’t one of my finer moments. Though of course, Mom blamed it all on them. I was just the impressionable youth they tainted with their rebellious ways. If only she knew it had been my idea to decorate that cement wall. Then again, that would just give the two of us another reason to fight. But that’s behind me, the fighting and the mischief. I’m not going to be that person anymore.

  Hand towels and washcloths make their way from the box to the marble kitchen counter. “What about Bryce? You liked him, right?”

  There’s a pause, a long pause.

  She doesn’t even need to answer. Her nose twitches, and her eyes avert as I stare her down.

  Bryce and I had been together for three years. He came to family dinners, birthday parties, and all this time, I was foolish enough to believe they liked him.

  How dumb am I?

  “Sure, honey. He was nice. Just...not—”

  Dad saves Mom from having to finish that sentence. “Beds are all done,” he says, entering the kitchen. His Hawaiian shirt has a layer of dust caked into the fabric. The bright and cheerful flowers now look withered and brown. “Hey, looks good in here.” He walks over to Mom and gives her a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Is it time for some grub?”

  “Grub? Who even says that? Are you sure you’re a brilliant doctor?” I ask.

  “Damn right I am. I have the fancy plaques to prove it.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

  Walking over to the fridge, Mom pulls the heavy stainless steel door open. “Well, Mr. Saunders did say his wife left a casserole...” she says with uncertainty.

  Unlike the rest of the house that has the old charm of being built long ago, the kitchen has been updated. The fridge is huge, the countertops swirled marble, the range, full of gas burners and one of those fancy double ovens. This is a five star chef’s dream.

  Pulling out the lonely oval ceramic dish, Mom places it on the counter. We all stand, hovering over the island, waiting for its contents to be revealed. Slowly, inch by inch, the foil lid is pulled back.

  We gasp, staring down at—

  God, what is that?

  My nose scrunches. “That is
just rank. It’s like dirty socks, BO and puke in a casserole dish.”

  Dad puts a hand over his mouth. “That looks like someone’s innards.”

  “Don’t be so silly you two. It’s just—”

  “It’s just what Mom?” My stomach does flips, feeling topsy-turvy.

  Tucking strands of hair behind her ear, Mom stares down at the red casserole. It’s too chunky and unrecognizable to be chili—not that it counts as a casserole and too weird looking to be some sort of sauced meat dish. “Well, I just don’t know. But who wants the first bite?” She snickers.

  “Not a chance. That looks like nothing I’ve ever seen before.” I cover my mouth, holding a gag at bay.

  “Um...I’m with Alex, how about we take the car and find a pizza joint. Toss that in the trash and forget it was ever here,” Dad says.

  I have a car. “Dad? When’s my car gonna get here?”

  Dad didn’t think I was old enough, or maybe responsible enough, to drive the car myself, nor did he want Mom taking hers either. So we all piled into his stuffy old man sedan while one of those big semi car haulers transported Mom’s and mine here without us. I can’t believe I forgot all about my—baby.

  Digging into his pocket, Dad produces my smiley face key chain, even jingles it in front of my face. “I forgot about these.”

  I snatch the keys from him, midair.

  “They dropped the cars off this morning, too. It’s around back. In the garage.”

  I’m already striding towards the door as I yell over my shoulder, “I’ll get the pizza.”

  Mom, always the thinker in the family, replies, “Do you have enough mon…”

  The door slamming against the wood frame cuts off the rest of that sentence. I’m just happy I’m free. Slowly I was beginning to go crazy in that house with the boring task of emptying box after box. Also, let’s not forget, what I’m sure I saw, but the longer I think about it the more impossible and ridiculous it sounds to me.

  There are no such things as ghosts!

  I gallop down the stairs, too excited to even worry about the rotting steps. Hopping off the last one, I race around the house towards the garage. As I round the corner, the old building, leaning hard to the left comes into view. I skid to a stop.