Photo courtesy of http://www.freefoto.com/index.jsp***Author's note: "Wide Awake" is an original, previously unpublished, fictional story that I wrote. It will be told in multiple parts. If you've yet to read Part One, here's the link to do so first http://kamikae5.blogspot.com/2009/09/wide-awake-part-one-crazy-talk.html ***
WIDE AWAKE
Part Two: Haunted House
Goosebumps covered my arms. I shivered. My sixteen year old sister, Stephanie, had just told me that she'd been communicating with a ghost for the past two weeks. She said this ghost was named Thomas, and he lived -- no, wait, lived is surely the wrong term to describe it -- he resided in Professor Harper's large house in Seattle's Capitol Hill neighborhood. I was house-sitting for the professor while she was on in Europe on sabbatical, and my sister was staying with me for the summer. I'd thought things had been going very well in the those two weeks, since we'd moved in, but I questioned this after Stephanie's announcement that the house was haunted.
My name is Lily Wilson. I'm twenty-three, and I have to admit that living in a haunted house was a frightening idea. It gave me the chills. At the same time, I was sure I didn't even believe in ghosts. I thought it likely that my sister had things wrong. After toying with several ideas, possible drug use or physical or mental illness, I'd decided that Stephanie was just imagining her conversations with Thomas. This so-called ghost had to be the product of the overactive mind of a lonely, excitable, troubled teenage girl. If it was O.K. for little kids to have imaginary friends, then it was possible, and even O.K., for a teenager to have one too.
Alright, alright. If I'm being honest, then I'll have to say that a child's imaginary friend and my sister's so-called ghost aren't really the same thing. Comparing the two was only designed to make myself feel better about the situation. Stephanie, not surprisingly, had no problems with any of it. She thought it was cool that she could talk with a ghost. She said Thomas was very nice and friendly to her. I couldn't fathom how the words "nice" and "friendly" could apply to a ghost, but my sister had her own way of looking at things. It was never easy for me to understand her point of view.
I did try to understand. After she told me about her imaginary ghost friend, I reached the just-play-along-and-humor-her stage. I tried to learn more about Thomas.
I asked her, "Do you see him? Or do you only hear him?"
Stephanie said Thomas chose to talk to her most of the time while invisible. He had made himself visible to her, but that was only twice. He told her that any contact with "the living", as he called us non-ghost people, wasn't easy. Making contact required both concentration and practice. For years, Professor Harper had been the only one among the living to whom he'd spoken. He'd managed to appear to the professor several times.
It was at this point that I interrupted Stephanie. "Thomas told you that he's also communicated with Professor Harper?"
She nodded. "Yeah, he says she's a great lady. He knew he'd miss her during her sabbatical, so he's glad to have us here."
"Whatever makes the ghost happy." I muttered to myself too softly for my sister to hear. Louder, I asked her, "If he's so glad to have us here, then why has he chosen to only communicate with you and not with both of us? Isn't he going to be pretty lonely when you go back to Portland for school in the fall?"
"Um, well," Stephanie seemed reluctant to reply. "I've asked him those same questions, and I told him that he needs to start talking to you too. He. . . he said that it's hard for him to talk to you, Lily."
"What do you mean? Why would talking to me be any different than talking to you or to Professor Harper?"
"I wondered the same thing, but he won't explain it. All I could get him to tell me is that it's hard for him to talk to you, but he does plan to try it soon."
"He does?"
I felt chilled, as Stephanie nodded her reply. The goosebumps returned to cover my arms again. Even though I'd only been pretending to believe in a ghost, the thought of hearing a dead person speak to me creeped me out. I didn't make sense. How could I be afraid of something I didn't believe to be real?
Fear and logic are not comfortable companions. I thought of myself as a logical person, not someone who is afraid of things that go bump in the night. Stephanie was the one with the overactive imagination, while I was the one with a cool head for business. That's why I felt getting my master's degree in business was logical. I was investing in my future, and I was keeping things practical. It wasn't practical to be afraid for what couldn't possibly be real.
Later than night, I was reminding myself of this as I tossed and turned in bed; the bed that was mine for the year I was to spend in Professor Harper's house. I told myself that it was illogical to be afraid. I wasn't Ebenezer Scrooge in Charles Dickens's "A Christmas Carol". Ghosts weren't coming to visit me at bedtime. Only my sister, sleeping in a room down the hall, was in the house with me. No one else. There was no reason I should have the uncomfortable feeling of being watched.
I'd already gotten up once to make sure the window blinds were tightly closed. They were. I was quite sure no one could see into the dark room. I hadn't really believed that anyone could. Even before I'd gotten up, I'd doubted the possibility, but I was looking for some kind of rational explanation for why I felt the way I did.
Huddled in bed beneath a quilt, I puzzled at the chill in the room. I could see my breath floating out of my mouth in small clouds. When I'd made my sleepy way to bed, the room had felt hot and stuffy. It was a warm summer night, and, after I'd brushed my teeth, I'd planned to turn on a fan to cool down the room. However, this odd feeling that I was being watched came to me when I returned from the bathroom. A draft of cold air came along with it. I'd pulled a thick bathrobe over my light, summery pajamas before climbing into bed. Yet, as tired as I was, I was quickly too cold and too anxious to fall asleep. Neither of these feeling made any sense, and I dislike it when things don't make sense.
My feelings drifted from fear into anger. I was angry with myself for being afraid. It was unacceptable. I blamed Stephanie's stories for sparking my imagination although I'd previously thought my imagination nearly non-existent. My sister's attempts to convince me the house was haunted hadn't been the best conversation to have right before bedtime. I found it ironic that, while she no doubt slept peacefully down the hall, to my frustration, I was wide awake.
Getting out of bed, I decided to head to the kitchen. Maybe a cup of chamomile herbal tea would help me relax. Wrapping and tying the long, thick robe tighter around me, I slipped on a pair of slippers and went downstairs. As I went through the house, I checked the doors and all the windows. They were closed and locked. Of course, they were. It was too much to hope that there would be a sensible reason for the chill breeze or for the feeling of being watched. Both sensations came along with me into the kitchen.
I heated a mug of water in the microwave, pulled it out, and added a tea bag. While my tea seeped, I dug through the cupboard looking for some honey to put in my tea. I remembered seeing some in the house, and, after a few moments, I recalled seeing a jar on a shelf in the pantry. Sure enough, there was a jar of honey on the highest shelf, out of reach of someone as petite as myself.
Grabbing a chair, I pulled it into the pantry and climbed up onto it. I could barely brush my fingers against the edge of the jar, not quite enough to grab hold of it. Raising myself onto my toes, I stretched up as far as I could. Just as my fingers wrapped around the jar, I felt the chair sway and start to rock to the side. In a split second, I became certain I was going to fall. The thought had barely registered itself when I felt the sensation of the chair suddenly stabilizing itself, as well as the touch of someone firmly grasping onto my left arm. Thankfully, both of these movements prevent my fall.
"Be careful." A masculine voice said near me.
If the grasp on my arm and on the chair hadn't been so firm, the sound of that voice might have startled me enough to start falling again. I jerked my arm away from the hand and quickly jumped off the chair. Frantically, my eyes darted around the room. I was looking for the man who had first broken into the house, and then had prevented me from falling. I was breathing hard, lost in the grip of panic for a short while. I remained this way until my rattled brain registered what I was looking at - - empty room.
I could see no one in the pantry, and I knew that no one had broken into the house. Everything was locked up, and I would have heard someone if they had tried to break in. Nevertheless, I knew, deep within myself, that I wasn't alone. There was a man in the pantry with me; a man who had saved me from a fall off the chair. I was certain that I had felt his hand on my arm and heard him warning me to be careful. I was also certain that I could no longer claim that I didn't believe in ghosts.
***To Be Continued***
Until I type again,
Kami
Kami
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