Ghost Town Paperback - 2013

Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

âÈêSee, itâÈçs not so different. Open your window and smell the air,âÈë my father instructed as we turned off the highway. He pressed a button somewhere to the left of the steering wheel, and my window rolled down by itself.

I cringed at the thought of what I might see out there and turned my back on the warm, summer breeze cutting through the stale odor of the rental car.

âÈêDo you smell the ocean air, Sara?âÈë my father asked, a little too eagerly. âÈêJust like home. I mean, like California. They smell the same, donâÈçt you think?âÈë

I didnâÈçt think so. The Atlantic Ocean smelled heavy and thick and salty. The Pacific didnâÈçt have a smell, or at least it didnâÈçt have one that I could remember.

I stared at my chipped purple nail polish, unwilling to look out the window, unwilling to inhale more East Coast air. My dad was trying so hard to make me happy. But I had this huge knot in my stomach that just wouldnâÈçt go away and I couldnâÈçt pretend to be happy, not even for my dad. Not today.

Pressing the automatic window button on my side, I heard the glass close, cocooning us once again in our bubble against the world.

âÈêDo you want to talk about it?âÈë my father asked, for what was probably the hundredth time. His voice was gentle. âÈêCome on, Sara, the move will be good for us.âÈë

âÈêHow do you know that?âÈë I asked, shifting my gaze from the oblong stain of unknown origin on the gray-blue upholstered seat to the gray faux-leather dashboard. I held tight to the belief that if I didnâÈçt look outside, New Jersey wouldnâÈçt exist. âÈêI liked California.âÈë

My dad ran one hand through his curly brown hair. âÈêYouâÈçll like it here, too. Give it time.âÈë He turned his attention back to the road through the small town, clogged with late-summer beach traffic.

Discussion over. That was classic Dad. He didnâÈçt like to dig too deep, or push too hard. He preferred to wait for me to come to him, which was fine when I was little, but itâÈçs a little more complicated now that IâÈçm twelve.

What I didnâÈçt get was whyâÈ'nowâÈ'were we suddenly diving in and moving across the country to some strange shore town where we knew no one?

Dad said it was his job. But, seriously, although my long blond hair and blue eyes make a lot of people assume IâÈçm a flake, IâÈçm way smarter than that. New Jersey doesnâÈçt need another insurance claims adjuster, no matter how great my dad may be at his job. There was more to it. I just didnâÈçt know what.

We drove in silence. A lot of people get freaked out by silence. I donâÈçt mind it. Dad and I often hang out together without talking. DadâÈçs not a big sharer of thoughts or feelings. At my old school, the teachers always called me shy because I didnâÈçt speak much. I donâÈçt think IâÈçm shy. I just realized early on that not everything needs to be vocalized. ThereâÈçs a difference between shy and quiet.

âÈêOur streetâÈçs coming up,âÈë my dad announced. âÈêIâÈçm pretty sure I remember it from last time.âÈë HeâÈçd flown out last month to meet his new boss and find us a place to live. IâÈçd stayed behind at Aunt CharlotteâÈçs house. We didnâÈçt visit my dadâÈçs younger sister much, and after four days of living with her and my crunchy uncle Dexter on their organic avocado farm, I could see why.

Dad slowed the car, raised his aviator sunglasses, and squinted at the map from the rental counter at the airport. Then he turned right onto Seagate Drive. So my new street was called Seagate Drive. . . .

I wrapped my arms around my knees and stole a look out the window. I couldnâÈçt help it. My curiosity was too intense.

Old Victorian houses painted pastel colors lined the narrow street. I stared in amazement at a three-story lavender house with powder-blue trim. IâÈçd never seen a house like that before! It was so different from the simple stucco house IâÈçd grown up in.

âÈêNice street, right?âÈë my dad asked, driving slowly.

âÈêNiceâÈë isnâÈçt the word I would have chosen. âÈêWhat kind of people paint their house pink?âÈë I asked instead, pointing to a pink house on our left.

He let out an exasperated sigh. âÈêHappy people.âÈë

I wanted to reply, to say something nice so I didnâÈçt sound like such a brat, but the tingling had started. In my left foot. Always my left foot first. Go away, I prayed. Oh, please, go away. My heart beat rapidly.

I knew what the tingling meant.

Three houses down, a group of dark-haired kids played on a circular white-pebbled driveway. Bikes, skateboards, and jump ropes lay scattered about, and shrieking laughter wafted through my closed window. I watched them chase one another, certain they were all related. A girl about my age ran after a younger boy. I wondered what she was like. Then the tingling spread to my right foot and began to creep up my legs.

âÈêHere we are,âÈë my dad announced. He waited nervously for my reaction as our car stopped in front of a weathered gabled house.

I blinked several times, struggling to focus. Willing the feeling to go away, I tried to focus on the details of the house. The sea air had weathered the once-vibrant siding. The painted burnt-orange trim was faded and peeling. A huge covered porch with decorative railings wrapped around the front. The second-floor windows opened to several small walkout balconies. Three large windows protruded from the roof, and an octagonal turret rose along the right side of the house.

The tingling rippled through my entire body. My dad was saying something about Victorian architecture, but I barely heard him. They were here. I couldnâÈçt see them yet, but I could sense them. I knew they were here.

So many of them.

I squeezed my eyes tight, hoping to block them out. Then the nausea came over me, and I felt like I might throw up right there. The force of their presence pushed against me. I could feel them reaching for me . . . needing me.

âÈêSara? Do you feel all right?âÈë

I opened my eyes and shook my head. âÈêMust have been the airplane food,âÈë I managed to croak.

âÈêThe house needs some work,âÈë my dad said. âÈêExcept for the little storefront, the house has been totally empty for quite a while. But what do you think?âÈë

My breath caught in my throat as they finally came into view. The old, hunched woman rocking in the swing on the porch. The young man in the cap hanging out the dormer window. The angry-looking man with the mustache by the front door. The slim woman in the long nightgown staring out the bay window. Everyone shimmered and vibrated slightly in the midday sun. My head throbbed.

My father was wrong. The house wasnâÈçt empty.

Dead people still lived there.

And I could see them.