Won't Let Go Read online

  The hairs on the back of my neck raise, bumps prickle my skin. It’s like a hundred pairs of eyes are boring into me, turning my cheeks from pale and cool to bright red and scorching hot.

  And even though it’s the last thing I really want to do, I look up.

  It’s a glimpse. A hundredth of a second glimpse. But I see, without a doubt, the rustling curtain and the silhouette of something in the window.

  Not real, not real, not real, NOT REAL!

  I bring my hand to the side of my face, shielding my peripheral and force myself forward. Staring only at the rock covered ground and my ratty, old black sneakers, I rush towards the garage. The fear that’s propelling me forward, however, doesn’t stop me from chancing a look over my shoulder.

  Nothing. Nothing’s there.

  Again, the curtain hangs motionless on the rod.

  But it was there, wasn’t it?

  Thankfully the huge doors are already open as I draw closer. I fumble with my keys. The door to my car falls open, and I slide in. Quickly, hands still shaking, I force the key into the ignition, turn it and let my baby roar to life.

  There’s no such thing as ghosts, no such thing as ghosts, no ghosts. My head reels as I pull out of the garage. The tires spit up gravel as I speed down the lane.

  “God Dammit!” I pound my hand into the steering wheel as my heart races, fast and furious in my chest. I’ve been here less than a day, like six hours, and it’s turning me into a crazy person!

  There are no such things as ghosts, I tell myself again and again. I say it when I turn onto Oak Street, leaving Elm in the dust. I say it when I have a near miss with a pedestrian on Poplar Crescent. And I say it again, “There are no such things as ghosts,” loud and clear when I pull my blue Mustang into the angled parking spot in front of Nick’s Authentic Pizzeria. It’s as if saying it out loud will change the outcome that my brain has already started to accept.

  After countless more boxes, moving the couches in the living room again, and then again, even gorging myself on what might be the best pizza I’ve ever had, I lie in my bed.

  In my new room.

  In my new house.

  The blankets are pulled up high around my neck, pillow propped up against the wooden headboard as I stare out over the space.

  I’m afraid to shut my eyes. Afraid to drift off to sleep. But most importantly, afraid this house is making me crazy.

  But, I can’t fight off the fatigue of the long drive and a tiresome day. My eyelids grow heavy. Forcing them to stay open becomes too much of a challenge. They fall, making the stream of light from the almost full moon disappear...

  Tap, tap, tap—My eyes fly open.

  Tap, tap, tap—I sit up in bed, my heart pounding in my chest.

  Tap, tap, tap—What the hell is that?

  I pull the blankets even tighter against my body, my eyes dart this way and that, trying to find the origin of the sound—

  But it stops.

  The room is once again silent.

  I’m freaked. If I were twelve years old again, I’d hop off my bed, run down the hall and curl up in bed with my parents. But I’m not. I’m seventeen. Almost an adult.

  Besides, there might be something under the bed. It might reach out and grab me by the ankles swallowing me up into a black hole.

  It happens in the movies all the time.

  A few minutes of silence go by with no trace of any more sounds. Again, I’m finding it hard to keep my eyes open as drowsiness threatens to consume me. Finally, I let it. I close my eyes, because I am almost an adult and there are no such things as ghosts!

  Squeak, squeak, squeak—I’m jerked out of a fitful sleep, and my eyes whip open.

  I bolt up. Petrified.

  Squeak, squeak, squeak—“Who—who’s there?” My voice trembles.

  The sound, once again, stops.

  Mustering up a whole lot of courage, I crawl, gradually making it to the end of my bed. A whoosh of cool air tickles my cheek. But I don’t laugh. I stay, motionless, peering out over the clutter of boxes, the scattered furniture not and a sheer covered window.

  Then like a tornado in full force, a huge wind picks up. It whips my hair against my face, the curtain flails violently and boxes tumble. The contents spill out over the floor and papers circle around the room as if they have wings. The light overhead flickers on and off.

  My hand comes to my mouth, and I bite down on the skin. A metallic taste hits my tongue. It pushes the scream that wants out down because I’m frozen stiff. I can’t bring myself to move another inch. Instead, tears well in my eyes, spill over and stream down my cheek.

  “Stop! Stop it!” I yell, but my voice is muffled by my hand.

  More boxes plummet to the ground, my clothes slide across the floor, books thud against the wall, and I can’t take it.

  This is so unreal that it can’t be real.

  “Get out! Get out and leave me alone! I’ve, I’ve got bleach!”

  I hope any minute my parents will awake. That the commotion will bring them here and make this horror stop.

  But it’s not real.

  This must be a dream.

  Because, there are no such things as ghosts!

  “Please, just get out!” I yell again.

  One, two, three wake up! Wake up!

  Then, just when I think things can’t get any more intense—that there aren’t any more things to fly around the room like they have a mind of their own—and that the whistling of the wind can’t get any louder, a ferocious voice bellows, “NO! You get out!”

  The breath in my lungs is knocked out as I gasp with shock. I pinch my eyes closed and repeat over and over, “It’s just a dream, it’s just a dream...”

  When the wind stops howling and the force stops blowing, I reopen my eyes. Everything is just as it was before I shut the lights off and came to bed. The boxes are neatly stacked, my clothes still in them, papers aren’t strewn about and books aren’t covering every inch of my floor. Not a thing is out of the place. The moon still streaks across the floor, as high in the sky as it was the last time I really looked at it.

  It was all a nightmare.

  I flop back against the bed, almost positive I'll never be able to get back to sleep.

  Chapter Three

  Warmth caresses my cheeks and stirs me awake. I sit up, amazed it's morning, but even more amazed I was able to close my eyes, fall asleep and make it through the night relatively unscathed. As I roll out of bed, my feet hitting the cool wooden planks, I’m still unconvinced it was all a dream. It was so real. So vivid. My imagination just isn’t that good.

  I double check the space anyway, making sure everything is still in order, and it is. Sighing, I push myself off the bed and tip-toe to the bathroom that is so conveniently attached to my room.

  One perk I didn’t have back in California.

  In the bathroom, signs of my restless night show. My emerald eyes are clouded over, glossy and red tinged. Darkness circles them too. My cheeks are flushed and puffy. Curls of brown hair are frizzed and stick waywardly out of my ponytail. I waste no time splashing cool water on my face in hopes of washing away the horrific dream I had, even leaving it behind to swirl down the sink as I start a new day. I want to ignore what I still believe couldn’t possibly be real.

  Dressing in simple distressed and torn jeans, a black Pink Floyd T-shirt and taming my hair into a new ponytail, I skip down the stairs, sneakers in hand. Mom is already bustling around the house, juggling handfuls of books.

  “Morning,” I say. My voice startles her.

  A few books jump from her hands and thud on the floor. She bends to pick them up. “Don’t scare me like that.” She flashes me her signature smile. It’s wide, toothy and bright white. It’s the first thing people notice about her. Then it’s the bright green eyes. They remind me of gems or the most luscious green grass of summer. And finally, her silky, shiny brown hair—like mine—always flowing down the length of her back and falling in her face. I wi
sh every time I look into the mirror that I had at least half of that beauty. I’m envious of it. “Did you sleep well? I know I sure did.”

  I follow her into Dad’s new office. The shelves seem filled to capacity, but Mom takes the books from her clutches and somehow squeezes them in with the others.

  Do I tell her the truth? “I slept like a log,” I say, as I sit in the oversized leather office chair and put my shoes on. I feel a little bad about lying. I’ve done enough of that in the past. I shouldn’t start that same trend here. But the lie is probably safer than admitting the truth.

  “That’s great, honey. Why don’t you pass me that other box?”

  The ‘other box’ is heavy. I grunt as I lift it from the floor to the desk. Opening it, I find Dad’s aforementioned I’m a brilliant doctor plaques. Each one is thick wood, gold plated and fancy. They also prove he spent a whole lot of years and money becoming one of the best medical surgeons in the country. It’s still a wonder why we’re here and not somewhere more prestigious, like New York. I suppose if you want to be chief of surgery, you go where they want you, even if that’s Willard Grove, Oregon.

  Mom takes one of the over-priced plaques from my hand as she says, “So what are your plans for today? Have you started unpacking your room yet?”

  I groan. The last place I want to be is in that room. “No. I thought I might help you?”

  “Well, honey, I’ve been up since dawn. Most of this stuff down here is done. You could go to the store and pick up a few things for me. I don’t think we want pizza two nights in a row.”

  I think back to last night’s pizza, and my stomach gurgles. “It was good but definitely not. Besides, I’ve got a hankering for Apple O's.”

  Another plaque finds its way out of the box. “There’s money in my purse. Just grab a few bucks. Don’t forget some milk and something nutritious, besides that sugary cereal.”

  I pull her into a hug. “Thanks, Mom. Is Dad already at work?”

  “Sure is. He couldn’t wait to check out his new hospital. Said he’d be home for dinner though.”

  And that’s Dad for ya. I think he’s spent more time working—than not.

  Willard Grove doesn’t have a Starbucks, and you won’t find a Macy’s or even a Costco. Apparently, all eight thousand people gets you is a Wal-Mart, a no-name doughnut shop and an Applebee’s. So, I’m not surprised when the grocery store isn’t stocked full of organic fruits and vegetables. The lack of cow manure smell must mean nothing’s home grown. I settle on a few things, load my basket, not forgetting the Apple O's, and head to the till.

  I’d have thought that even being new—the size of the city would mean I wouldn’t hear, “Hey, you must be new around here.”

  There goes blending into the crowd.

  Placing the last of my basket contents onto the counter, I say, “Is it that obvious?”

  The clerk, who is young, blonde haired and blue eyed, manhandles my produce and shoves it in a plastic bag. “Sure. I’ve been here all my life, and besides, you have a nice tan.”

  I give my bare arms a once over. California will do that to you, whether you like it or not. “Well then, I’m new here.” I smile.

  “My name’s Allison. Are you starting at the high school next week? ’Cause I go there. I know all the right people.” She giggles, smoothing the wrinkles from her designer peasant top thing before she goes back to scanning and bagging

  Doesn’t she know you’re not supposed to put cleaning products in the same bag as food? I glare at the sanitizing aides —you can never have enough of them—poking out of the bag with my Apple O's and blueberry muffins. I’m sure they’re just waiting to contaminate my food with sterilization power. “Yeah. I’m a senior,” I say, wanting to hop over the counter and show her how to properly bag my groceries.

  Deep breaths, I tell myself. It’s just some groceries. Nothing to freak out over. You’re a new person. In a new town. First impressions matter.

  “Let me give you my number. I can show you around town whenever you want.” She grabs a pen, coughs on it and her hand, and scrawls on the piece of paper. Then she lets it hang from her fingertips.

  I glare at the paper for a second before I reach out and grab it. Quickly, I shove it in my pocket, already feeling the microbes seeping into my pores. Nothing a little hand-sanitizer can’t fix. “Thanks. I’m happy I know someone in town now.” I pass her the money, accept my change and hightail it out of there.

  “Call me any time...Hey, wait. What’s your name?” She calls out.

  I stop.

  I have to.

  She’s been nice, even sharing her germs and all with me. I remember what my mom said about nice friends. I heave a sigh. “Alex, Alex Stone,” I say and walk through the automatic doors.

  Sitting at the kitchen island, bowl of Apple O's and milk in front of me, I methodically take bites. With each spoonful, a burst of apple and cinnamon awakens my taste buds. It’s like eating pie without the mess and effort.

  As I spoon another bite, Mom dances into the kitchen, paper towel and wood polish in hand. “Hey, I didn’t hear you come in. I’ve made huge strides in that room of yours.” She smiles, setting down the aerosol can.

  I nearly choke on my mouthful of cereal. “You—you were in my room?” I ask, looking at her incredulously. Then I try to focus on something other than her green eyes. I look at the stains on her housework clothes—they consists of a shirt, worn around the collar and blue jeans with paint splattered up and down her thighs.

  She shrugs. “Well, yeah. Someone had to clean it up. Besides, now it’s clean. You can stop procrastinating and unpack.”

  “Did you...I don’t know—notice anything off about the room?”

  Maybe, have books, clothes and boxes whipped at your head. Hell, seen the Ghost of Christmas Past, perhaps?

  Mom seems to consider this for a minute as she pulls her fingers through her tangled brown hair, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Should I have noticed anything strange? Off?”

  I shove another spoonful into my mouth. “No.” I've probably just given her the wrong impression, like I've got something to hide. Stupid.

  “Then no, besides a bunch of boxes waiting to be unpacked. I’d like you to hop to it, once you’re done eating.”

  I sigh with defeat. “Fine.” Pushing the empty bowl of cereal away, I reach into my pocket and pull out the germ infested paper. “I met a nice girl today. She offered to show me around town,” I say, sliding the paper over to where she leans against the marble island.

  Her face lights up. “Oh that’s great, honey. I knew you would. Are you going to call—” Mom looks down at the crumpled paper. “Allison?”

  I think about this for a moment. She was nice, I mean giving her number to a total stranger. “I might. We’ll see. I figure I might hold out for someone less nice.” I clamp my mouth shut. I shouldn’t have said that but it just came out. It was totally uncalled for. My nice friends, weren’t really so nice, but I shouldn’t punish Mom for that. It was my own fault.

  Thankfully, Mom doesn’t take the bait I tossed out. Instead of chastising me, she scoops up the paper towel and polish and heads out of the kitchen. “I expect you to start unpacking. Make an honest effort of it,” she throws over her shoulder.

  I’m standing outside of my room, I’ve got my hand on the crystal knob, taking deep, calming breaths. I’m still going with it was all a dream or more honestly, a nightmare. That everything that’s happened, the shadows, the moving curtain and the chaos of last night was purely an overactive imagination due to lack of sleep and the stress of moving halfway across the country. If I tell myself that enough, I know I’ll have to start really believing it, right? Then again, who am I kidding?

  I twist the knob slowly. I can’t hide. I can’t stand out here forever, not facing this room, this place. No matter what lies beyond this door, it’s a part of my life now. Somehow I’ll deal with it. I’ll either realize it’s nothing, or realize I am going crazy.


  But I will not let this change me.

  I will not be tormented and terrified.

  Because, there are no such things as ghosts.

  They do not exist.

  As I push open the door, all sense of reason flies out the window.

  All the ideas I’d built up in my head this morning, and the pep talk I gave myself a second ago about how things are, what exists and what doesn’t are bullshit.

  My room is like hurricane central, again. The boxes are flipped over, contents strewn about. Clothes and shoes cover most every inch of the floor. There are only small, tiny bits of freshly polished wood shining through the books, the papers and the photos torn from their album. There’s no way Mom missed this. Or, it wasn’t like this when she was here.

  Irritated, I take strategic steps into the room, dodging the mess as best I can. My entire life has been thrown around like it’s garbage, and I’m pissed off. How can I dream this shit up? How is this—this mess, not real!

  “I’m not leaving,” I say to the room. “You hear me? I’m not leaving!”

  I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. For a moment, I feel empowered.

  I sure told him how it is!

  A weight has been lifted off my shoulders as I bend down, start picking up the balled up socks and thongs from the floor and put them in my freshly polished oak dresser. Soon pants and shirts get shoved in other drawers, too. One of the only two dresses I own gets hung up in the closet before I start on the books. Delicately, I pick them up and stack them on my nightstand and the floor beside it. And despite the gale force winds of last night, and the mess of right now, my Betty Boop lamp is still intact and finds a home beside the books on my nightstand.

  As I arrange the last of the photos into my album a chill runs down my spine. A brush of cold air envelopes me. I stop what I’m doing and stand up straight. I expect imaginary winds to pick up and tear apart the last hour’s worth of work. I’m bracing myself for it. Only it doesn’t come.